


What Might Have Been

by TheLostPocket



Category: Pellinor - Alison Croggon
Genre: AU, F/M, Pellinor Golden Age, Power Shift, Things are about to get complicated, What If???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28150887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLostPocket/pseuds/TheLostPocket
Summary: Through a twist of chance, the sack of Pellinor is averted by a friendly ear being in the right place at the right time. Now, fifteen years later, a simple Gathering of the Schools will set into motion a series of meetings that will decide the fate of all Edil-Amarandh. For while the doom of Pellinor went unfulfilled, the doom of all the the known kingdoms and beyond still lies in wait - but has time and circumstance made salvation impossible?
Relationships: Cadvan of Lirigon/Maerad of Pellinor, Malgorn of Innail/Silvia of Innail
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> "For a split second, Cadvan had a vision of how things might have been. The Great Hall of Pellinor in full glory, light shining through the stained-glass windows. A quartet of people stood on a raised dais; two men, one taller than the other, with matching grins; and two women, both in stately robe with long, dark hair. The older woman was talking, offering a warm welcome to the guests assembled; this was Milana, First Bard of Pellinor. Beside Milana Cadvan recognised her daughter, Maerad of Pellinor, who smiled serenely, a lyre in hand. As Cadvan watched her, Maerad’s eyes turned to the left of the dais. Cadvan’s followed her gaze, and there stood his dear friend Dernhil, clad in Pellinor robe, smiling. They shared a long look of love, unaware that they were observed, and Cadvan felt a strange pang in his stomach.   
>  Was that the life that might have been?"
> 
> Shamelessly, this fic is inspired by this section from another of my Pellinor fanfics. But it fed off one of the low-lying questions that i think Maerad struggles with a lot over 'The Riddle' and 'The Singing' - questions about what her life might have been had her life been what it was meant to be. So this is my take on what might have been had Pellinor not been sacked. I've made Mearad a little older - in the books she's around 16/17, but in my fic she's in her early 20s (for reasons which i hope will become apparent). Enjoy!

Enkir swept quickly through the dark hallways, sticking to the shadows as if he himself were one. His eyes were wary, but he knew he would not be discovered here. Norloch was one of the most ancient of the Schools of Annar, and as such as full of delicious, dark passages not widely known about through which one might conduct business. This particular passageway ran deep under the School, into the cliff; the entrance had been hidden under a large section of loose floorboards of a rarely-used storage chamber, and the further he travelled the more it resembled a miner’s shaft. It smelled of rancid water and dirt; Enkir covered his nose with his sleeve and marched on, magelight guiding the way. Very suddenly, the passage twisted to the right, then ran straight into a dead end. Enkir approached it with a raised hand, not lowing his pace. Just as he was about to ram into it, he hissed a sharp word – and passed through the solid stone as if it were a waterfall. 

The space beyond was an immense, black cavern with no visible end. There were no windows – Enkir strengthened his magelight – only great columns, supporting arches which heaved up and disappeared into the blackness. He was here. 

Carefully, he stepped further into the darkness. The air hummed as if with thunder. Enkir could feel it pressing against his skin, like being gently smothered, and grinned. And so, stationed in the very middle of the cavernous space, boxed in on all sides by rock, he extinguished his magelight and waited. 

He did not need to wait for long. 

Footsteps rang through the space, echoing and bouncing off the walls like bells. The new-comer did not bother to keep his presence quiet: for who would be here, beyond he who was expected? Who in all of Annar knew about this place, buried so very far underneath the mountain, marked on no maps or in any history book on the great School of Norloch? Who would stumble across it, when their own discovery of the place had been so very accidental, so very fortunate? 

Who, aside from the owner of a pair of dark blue eyes watching from behind a thick pillar. These eyes had observed Enkir’s arrival with surprise, and now peered through the darkness with interest at the sound of a second arrival. 

A magelight blinked into existence. In the sudden, broad circle of light two men faced one another, both glad in black, one familiar to the hidden onlooker. 

“Did you get it?” the hooded stranger hissed. Their voice cut through the musty air clearly, the guise of covertness shed. 

“Yes,” Enkir replied “it is certain: the Fire-Lily and the Dawn-Star.”

“The Lily and the Star,” the stranger said “the emblems Pellinor and Lirigon. But which?” 

“The Light shines on the House of Karn.” Enkir said “That much is certain. The House of Karn must fall.”

There was a long, malicious silence. Enkir sensed that the stranger was bristling, as if with glee. 

“Then the House of Karn will fall.” the stranger said simply, stooping forwards in a bow. As he did the light fell into the folds of his hood, revealing glowing red eyes set into a pale face – then he straightened, and his face was once more hidden in the recess of his hood. Enkir’s face twisted in a smile. 

“We will burn Pellinor to the ground. I have the trust of their First Bard, Milana – it will be a thing of ease.” Enkir’s lip curled at the name “Lirigon will follow. And there will be no survivors.” 

“Do this, and power over Annar will be yours. . .” The stranger assured in a reverential voice. Already he was receding into the shadows. “. . .Enkir, _First Bard_ of Norloch. Enkir. . . First Bard of All Edil-Amarandh.”

Enkir bristled, standing up straighter, jutting his chin just a little higher. “First Annar,” he said into the empty space where the stranger had been “then all Edil-Amarandh.” He stood for a few moments, lost to the vision of his own victory, as the shadows pressed against his circle of light. Then, finally, he turned sharply on his heel and disappeared back the way he had come. The crypt-like space was once more cast into thick blackness. 

The room remained frozen in silence for many long minutes. Then, there was a scuffing noise. Cadvan had unfurled from his accidental hiding place. He knew what he had to do. He made haste.


	2. Glad Meetings

The dawn brought chaos to Innail. The central courtyard, humming with traffic at the best of times, was a boiling pot of activity: rider-less horses; horseless-riders; impatiently mounted riders and their ever more impatient steeds; and in all spaces in-between, running like water between rocks in a stream, was a panoply of squires, servants, messengers, couriers, stable-boys and dogs all dashing back and forth, swirling around each other in near-collisions like eddies. Even the immense fountain stood in the middle of the heaving mass was not exempt from the chaos as over-excited dogs leapt through the water and young stable- and kitchen-hands made a shortcut of the wide stone brim. The horses shook their heads at the commotion, snorting loudly and pawing at the ground – the waiting travellers were hardly any better. 

“Malgorn!” a voice rang out over the turbulence. A fair woman struggled through the crowd, her shining auburn head turning to and fro. She had a very stern expression, and there was something hidden in her arms. A man on a horse raised his arm into the air, waving it in broad strokes. 

“Silvia!” Malgorn called back. A dappled mare skittered at his side, laden with bulging saddle-bags. A well-worn saddle waited, empty, on her back. Silvia let out a grateful cry and gently elbowed her way towards him. 

“Finally!” she huffed, her face very red “Here – the laradhel – don’t tell Oberon! He would have it all gone past his lips before we reach Ettinor, and I promised Dorn. . .” and with that, she quickly stashed a chunky bottle filled with golden liquid into her saddle-bags. Malgorn snorted in amusement but did not disagree. 

“It is almost time,” was all he said. Silvia mounted her mare, Wendolyn, and saw that almost all of the riders in the courtyard were also mounted and looking towards the gates. Very few servants were running in the gaps between horses now. Straps were checked – the large carts bearing travel supplies and gifts remained a hub of muffled activity – but, slowly, a kind of busy hush was settling on the scene. 

“All this fuss,” Malgorn muttered next to her “you should have seen Indick when the horses were being brought out and saddled. He was having kittens.”

“No wonder,” Silvia replied, looking to where the stern Bard was gesturing angrily at a stable-boy “we’ve never travelled in such numbers before – Oron has managed quite the feat of organisation.” 

“And we’re set to swell in numbers on the road.” Malgorn reminded her. 

“We are not joining with the Bards of Ettinor, are we?” Silvia cried in horror. The Innail party numbered some fifteen mounted Bards, with three sturdy carts to be placed in their midst throughout the two-week journey. The thought of meeting with a likely larger group, with their own burden of supplies and offerings, made Silvia’s stomach sink. Even on the well-made Bard roads the going would be slow and tiresome. 

“No, Oron received word yesterday that they have departed in advance of the Innail party – thank the Light. But Cordula and Garan of Iledh are like to meet with us coming north from Elevé, as with Judedh of Gent and Ilyana of Narn.”

“So many Bards from so many corners of Edil-Amarandh.” Silvia shook her head “It will be the largest Meet in living memory.”

“Pellinor will be so stuffed with Bards we’ll be spilling from supply closets and sleeping in drained fountain basins.” Malgorn joked. “At night, the towers will shake with the force of a thousand snoring Bards!”

“You are a fool if you think anything so peaceful as sleep will take place at such a large Meet.” Silvia laughed “The only slumber to take place will be supplied by your latest spring wine and Branar’s speeches. . .”

“Light give us strength,” Malgorn muttered, but with a smile. Branar of Lirigon was a deeply learned Bard, and a great friend to Dorn of Pellinor. . . but his toasts were always so _very long_.

“. . . and we must not forget that we welcome the great Cadvan of Lirigon to the raucous at Ettinor.” Silvia added. 

“Only through Oron’s wheedling and the promise of an early taste of the twenty-year-vintage.” Malgorn countered, but his smile had widened. “I truly believe he would rather sleep on bare rock in solitary confinement than deal with his own kind in such large qualities this.” 

“Cadvan is solitary,” Silvia agreed soberly “it has been so since Ceredin. . . even after what he did for Pellinor, and his ongoing service to the Light, yet still. . . although he dislikes it, I believe this social gathering will be good for him.” 

“I shall remind you of that when he hoards all the roasted mushrooms.” Said Malgorn slyly.

“And the Lirigon Sweetcakes. You know how partial he is to Lirigon Sweetcakes.” Sylvia cut in, in a rather motherly tone. Malgorn only snorted and continued as if no one had spoken: 

“I give it less than three days before the Library of Pellinor is brought to its knees under his demands, and the patience of Milana herself is pressed to its limits.” 

Silvia opened her mouth to retort, but was cut off by a voice dripping into her mind. 

_Dhillarearë Innail na_. . .

“Here we go,” Malgorn muttered under his breath. Around them, everything in the courtyard, even the yipping dogs, had gone still. Oron was perched majestically on a silver stallion before the now-open gates, looking every bit as authoritative as her position demanded. Her steel-grey hair was sensibly bound back from her face in a long, fat plait appropriate for travel, and her clothing was likewise practical and sturdy. She cast out her mind-speak like a net over the whole courtyard, encompassing man and beast in her instruction. 

_Bards of Innail, she said, we begin our journey North to the Pellinor Gathering. We ride swiftly – I hope to be beyond the Innail Let in three days, proceeding onwards by the Bard Roads to Ettinor, where we will meet with friends and take rest. From there, we proceed through Milhol, then finally to the warmth of Pellinor, where we will all be met with generous welcome and much comfort by our fellow Bard. But for now, we depart! Farewell, kind Innail, until the return. . ._

And with that, Oron turned and cantered through the gates. Silvia and Malgorn clenched the reins in their hands and slowly filtered out after her, falling into place near the first wagon. As the sun rose higher, the pale walls of Innail grew brighter and further away until, by the time the sun had once more begun to curve towards the horizon, the School was no longer visible at all. 

Nine days later, and the rain was so heavy in Ettinor that the Innail party was only visible as a large, bedraggled shadow in much of their approach down the long, straight road towards the Outer Circle. The guards only knew to open the gates by the magelight hovering over the head of the party, a beacon illuminating the characteristic silver-white hair of the First Bard of Innail. The travellers clattered noisily through the Circles sadly, none talking, and anyone else in the streets moved out of their way hastily. 

Most of the other Bards, Oron included, were staying in rooms in the First Circle. However, Malgorn and Silvia had arranged by letter for a room in The White Pendant, a fine inn run by a man called Hawthorn and his wife, Patella. So that was where they headed, breaking off with relief from the main group at the Fourth Circle. Wendolyn and Gaardh were deposited at the nearby stables, the luxury of paying stable-hands to attend to the mounts indulged, and not a moment too soon the two bards shuffled into the cosy inn. It was fairy busy, but not unpleasantly so; several groups of people were dotted around at tables, drinking and laughing. To the left of the door, a quiet room stuffed with tables was sparsely occupied, with only the odd lone drinker slurping at beer foam from heavy pewter tankards. Through an arch to the right, the main room glimmered with firelight, and a pretty young woman perched on a stool was playing a tune. This was where much of the noise was stemming from, and where Silvia and Malgorn headed. 

“Malgorn, Silvia!” a jovial voice cried, and into their line of sight a rotund man with a thick beard stepped forwards, his arms wide open “You arrive at last! I had thought we might need to search the puddles for you.”

Malgorn, too waterlogged to be in any great humour, merely offered their greetings and asked to be shown their rooms. Hawthorn yelled over a harried-looking young boy, who led them up the broad wooden staircase to the first floor guest rooms, gave them the key to their room, and skuttled off just as quickly as he had appeared. Within the chamber, they were greeted by a healthily blazing fire and two neatly folded parcels containing towels and other bathing necessities a traveller might not think to carry with them. The sight of the large, comfortable bed was almost more than Malgorn could bear, and Silvia let out a loud sigh when she finally stripped off her rain-saturated cloak. They changed, placing their wet clothing to steam before the roaring fire and, feeling significantly merrier, descended once more to seek out food and friends. 

“Cadvan said he would be staying here, also,” Malgorn murmured, looking around the large downstairs room. It was slightly busier – and louder – since their arrival, but none of the faces were familiar. Between the thrum of conversation, the girl’s fiddle wove like sunlight between the leaves, bringing a brightness to everything. Even the fire in the great hearth dominating an entire wall seemed to flicker to her tune. 

“If Cadvan is even in the city yet.” Silvia muttered. “You know how he is – he’ll probably come tearing up just as we’re about to leave the Fesse, fresh from some new adventure, hungry and tired and about collapsing from his horse.” 

“Silvia, how poorly you know me!” A voice sounded “I arrived here yesterday morning.”

Silvia spun, exclaimed, and embraced the man who had appeared behind her. “But were you hungry, tired and falling from your horse?” she demanded. Cadvan made no answer, turning instead to Malgorn and loudly asking what food he had ordered. 

“For I have ordered enough for the three of us,” Cadvan said “and wine besides, which I can only hope meets the approval of the expert in our midst.” He bowed slightly to Malgorn. 

“What would you have done had we not arrived?” Silvia laughed. Cadvan began herding them away from the bar. 

“I should have eaten every last bite, grown extremely fat, and have you roll me to Pellinor like a spare wheel behind a wagon.” Cadvan replied, grinning “No doubt Darsor would have welcomed the reprieve – no one can accuse me of under-exercising him.” 

Silvia and Malgorn were led to a circular table not far from the fire, where there sat a wide-lipped clay flagon, a tankard of ale (half-empty), a fine green-and-gold pen atop a fabric-bound notebook, and a tiny vase holding a bright yellow flower. Cadvan hastily disappeared the book and pen into the folds of his robes – but not hastily enough. 

“Cadvan, what was that I saw?” Malgorn had followed the book’s banishment keenly. 

“Your eyes are as sharp as ever they were.” Cadvan commented “Sit by the fire, both of you – I can do happily a little farther away. Sit, sit!”

“Are you writing poetry again?” Malgorn insisted. Cadvan looked a little bashful.

“The prospect of meeting with Dernhil – after all these years – has inspired me.” Cadvan said, making no move to re-conjure the notebook. “Something in my Knowing urges me to use my pen for more beauteous things than lore books and Council reports.” 

“Do you plan on performing at the Feast?” Silvia asked. Cadvan gave her a tight smile. 

“In song only, fair Silvia! And only where invited; amidst the great musicians of Pellinor, I would not dare to presume.” 

“Milana is sure to invite you.” Silvia said with finality. “I hear Dernhil is to perform, also. Although I hear, too, that he has been very busy in Pellinor.” 

Something in Silvia’s tone made Cadvan look up sharply. A thoughtful frown, never far from his lips, formed itself once more. 

“Was he not intending to reside in Innail?” Cadvan asked. 

“Indeed,” Malgorn nodded “and we would have been honoured, had he ever made it that far. He travelled from Gent, stopping at Pellinor on the way by Milana’s invitation, and found he could not bring himself to leave.”

“Well,” Cadvan, pushing aside his surprise, smirked “I shall not be so discourteous. I intend to stay at Pellinor for the Meet and a few days beyond, for I have business with their First Circle. Then I shall make all haste to Innail and enjoy yet more comforts of friendship and feast with you there.” 

Silvia’s joy and Malgorn’s put-on grumbling were overshadowed by the arrival of the food. Cadvan had not been false; he had ordered enough food for all three of them and then some. Although not as fine as Innail cuisine, the meal was good, honest fare: a pale brown soup that tasted of mushrooms and herbs, from which the mounds of fluffy dumplings rose like islands; a tray of slow-roasted, honey-glazed meats, wreathed with potatoes, turnips, carrots, peas and cabbage, all dripping with golden rivulets of butter; and, finally, the pride of Ettinor, a selection of heavy palm-sized cakes riddled with blueberries, served with a decadence of thick cream and tart gooseberry jam. Cadvan soon switched from ale to a black-red wine so rich it clung to his lips after each sip, staining them purple. Malgorn, ever the connoisseur, favoured a sharp, green-tinted liqueur distilled – he told his companions eagerly – from six different herbs and aged in beech-barrels. It was, he said, a delicacy exclusive to the district. This liqueur was served in an extremely small, thin glass; several times Cadvan had to fight off laughter at the sight of the miniscule glass pinched between Malgorn’s large forefinger and thumb, littlest finger flicked out delicately. Silvia, her heart still in Innail, ordered the inn’s laradhel and pretended not to be disappointed when it did not quite taste of home. They lingered over their meal, and when that was over, they lingered yet longer over their drinks, making up for almost two years’ abstraction as the candle on the table burned ever lower. Cadvan had many tales to tell – very few of them joyful. 

“Something does not sit well in the land,” Cadvan said, distractedly running his finger around his plate to pick up fallen cake crumbs “I cannot place it – but I feel it deep within my Knowing. Villages do not prosper as they should, even with the help of the Schools. I have seen crops spoken over by accomplished Bards which still succumb to disease. The White Sickness rages throughout the South, with nary a Bard who can prevent it.” 

“There will be much to discuss in the Meet,” Malgorn agreed, the seriousness of his tone only slightly lessened by the smudge of red-purple jam around his lips “there are times when it seems dark shadows hang in the air from the direction of the mountains. It is nothing more than an ill-boding, but Oron fears something rouses once more from the Dark.” 

“I agree with Oron.” Silvia said unexpectedly. She had been looking into her glass of laradhel for some time, listening to her companions in grim silence “There is something afoot here, and I do not like it.” 

“If that is the case, this Meet will be no fun for you, Cadvan.” Malgorn said, attempting to revive some feeling of humour “You will be pulled at from so many different directions you’ll have to have a representative for each School.”

“I am not highly regarded, or even welcome, at all Schools.” Cadvan reminded Malgorn quietly. He took a sip of wine, and for a moment his eyes flickered with some great sadness – then it was gone. “But I am glad to do what I can in service to the Light.”

“And it will not be all dull matters.” Silvia cut in, like Cadvan shaking off her moroseness with force. “Milana’s eldest, Maerad, comes of age the week following the Meet. It will be a fine addition to the celebrations. I hear she already has great promise.” 

“She is certainly a fine musician,” Malgorn nodded, and recounted a memory of one visit to Pellinor when the then 8-year-old Maerad had performed The Crystal Tear so finely that an entire room of Bards was brought to their knees with weeping. “Even you would have wept, had you been there, Cadvan of Lirigon.” He mocked. 

“She is of Pellinor: she has no choice but to be a fine musician.” Cadvan snorted “It is in her blood as much as her Gift is.” In truth, Cadvan was impressed, but only in an abstract kind of way. He had never met either of Milana’s children; in his visits to Pellinor he had always seemed to just miss the elusive Karn siblings. The closest he had ever come was during a visit to Norloch, where through a doorway Cadvan had just caught a glimpse of Dorn cradling an anonymous, knobbly-kneed bundle to his chest, swaying gently. The familial tenderness of their pose, two dark-haired heads pressed together, had struck him at the time with unexpected force, reawakening some ache within him he had thought lost to his own long-passed childhood. And so, regardless of the ten years or more that had passed since that day, Cadvan still instinctively thought of that bundled-up sleeping thing in Dorn’s arms whenever the Karn children were mentioned. Cadvan sifted through all of this in a mere moment, simply stating their lack of acquaintance. 

“Maerad looks so very like Milana,” Silvia sighed “but with Dorn’s thick, black hair. And much more like Dorn in temperament, which I think gives Milana pain sometimes.” Silvia smirked “Always a little restless, always off in some whirlwind, always bringing Cai into it, too.” 

“And what of Cai?” Cadvan pressed “Is he a new apple from the old tree? Like his sister?” 

“He favours Dorn in appearance,” Malgorn said “last we saw him he had an appetite like a black pit. Scarcely was a plate put before him before its contents disappeared – Maerad joked that his goal was to be tall as the Great Oak in the central courtyard.” 

“A goal he has set himself to valiantly,” Silvia added. 

“Well, we shall have to see if he has achieved his aspiration yet,” Cadvan smiled “that, perhaps, would show Saliman. He is far too used to being the tallest person in a room.”

vAnd you far too used to being the cleverest, Silvia thought, but did not say it. It would bring up bitter memories with no place at that table. 

From there the conversation moved to Saliman, and other friends they expected to see at the meet. Cadvan was excited that several of his closest friends whom he had not seen for any number of years would be there, and proclaimed that this was almost enough to ease the pain of seeing the many other Bards for whom he had no great liking. The only thing that could break up the merry reunion was the call for sleep, which tugged at Silvia and Malgorn’s limbs like an impatient child. Drinks were drained, well-wishes given, and all three retired to their rooms gratefully, rubbing their full stomachs and trying not to think of the days of travel ahead.


	3. The Road to Pellinor

The Innail Party departed Ettinor at noon the next day in a much happier state than when they had entered it. Oron was pleased to see Cadvan, and they rode next to one another in intense, hushed conversation all the way to Gormont. As Malgorn had anticipated, over the next few days a few Bards joined them on the road, bringing their number up to a staggering height. Cadvan had never travelled in a group so large, and felt rather like part of a great, slow circus trundling along the North Road. While he allowed himself to be drawn into the odd conversation, he mostly kept to the back of the trail, with the pack-horses and wagons, his serious face staring off into the distance. 

“I worry he has been alone too long.” Silvia confessed to Malgorn one afternoon as they approached Udhar. They had passed through Milhol the day before and were anticipating their last evening at an inn before the 3-day stretch of wilderness that was the road to Pellinor. “He has been travelling these fifty-five years, staying no place long, and with no higher companion than his horse. Will that be how Cadvan of Lirigon spends his Gift-given lengthened life? A nomad, living off under-seasoned stew and what conversation the animals can give him?” Malgorn did not respond, but by the tightness in his lips Silvia knew he agreed. She continued: “I fear he closes himself from the truest gifts of life – to love and to comfort – to a home! He is too young to give up on such things.” 

“Cadvan knows the importance of love as much as any Bard,” Malgorn replied, with the air of a topic much thought-over “but until he forgives himself for what happened so long ago he will never allow himself joy. Until he forgives himself for Ceredin, he will never find love.” 

Silvia sighed. That was the worst of it: all came back to Cadvan’s own weaknesses. His arrogance. His mistakes. He had grown much since his fame-gilded youth – and, Silvia secretly thought, into a much better man than he otherwise would have – but his propensity for harsh judgement, to others and to himself, had remained. She knew Malgorn was right – he would not find love again until he forgave himself – but after so many years Silvia could still see no signs of progress. Would such forgiveness ever be found? 

“Sometimes I wonder,” Silvia said “if Cadvan had not always felt he had something to prove. . .”

“But he did,” Malgorn interrupted not unkindly “and he must find a way to live with the consequences, just like we all must.” Silvia thought of their daughter, long dead, and silently agreed. Yes, they must all live with what fate dealt them.

“I wish,” Silvia cried suddenly “that one day I should see Cadvan sat happily in his own living room, serving us his wine and his food, and telling us how awfully dull his life has become since he stopped running constantly across Annar. I hope he takes a lover, and has so many children they hang off him like pears from a tree, and becomes fat from eating so many cursed mushrooms.” 

“Well, if he’s serving us his food, I hope he’ll have learnt to cook better than he does now,” Malgorn said with a small smile. Just like that, Silvia’s anger turned to laughter – for, truly, she had never been served anything cooked by Cadvan that she considered edible by Innail standards. She laughed. 

“If he ticks off enough from the rest of the list, I’ll eat every crumb and hold my grimaces.” Silvia said. “He is certainly handsome enough to take his pick of lovers, if he chose to.”

But here, Malgorn awkwardly demurred – he was in no position to comment on his old friend’s romantic appeal. Silvia laughed at her husband’s stuffiness, but did not press the topic. For what else could there be to say? She glanced back at Cadvan again. He had a very far-away look on his face, like he wasn’t fully aware of where he was or what he was doing, and Silvia suspected that perhaps that was true – that he didn’t know at all. She found the thought both comforting and unsettling. 

At Udhar, their ranks swelled again, and by the next morning the group towards Pellinor numbered some thirty-odd Bards. Cadvan, used to setting his own pace, often found himself frustrated at the slow speed such a party was forced to travel at. Darsor disapproved of his friend’s impatience. 

_What do you chase, old friend?_ Darsor asked, _We have no beast pursuing us, nor adversary to beat. Why do you itch on your saddle?_

Cadvan did not answer because he could not. Why was he so impatient? Many faults had been thrown at his doorstep before, but impatience was rarely one of them. Yet Darsor was right – something within him itched, urging him to move faster, stoking a strange feeling of anxiety within him. 

The weather remained fine, and the roads well-kept, so by late afternoon of the second day Cadvan spied the tall towers of Pellinor in the distance, glinting white in the sun against the grey mountainous backdrop. As they drew closer on the third morning, the true impact of Pellinor became apparent. Much like Innail, the School was situated before great rows of snow-topped mountains. The ground around Pellinor was as rich and fertile as that of Innail, but the landscape held none of the blue-and-green picturesque prettiness of its easterly sister. Pellinor Fesse was neither picturesque nor pretty, but wild and savage. Everything, from great to small, seemed to radiate a quiet power, all adding up to create an impression of magnificence against which Cadvan felt unutterably small. This feeling, far from being unpleasant, was welcome for Cadvan, like being wrapped in a thick blanket against a gale. To either side of him, great tufts of purple-blue heather rustled in the breeze, rippling like waves on the sea. He imagined himself striding into that great sea of heather, casting his body into it – he imagined the heather pressing around him, sentient, welcoming. He could lie down and, around him, the heather would dip and bow, embracing him. He could lie there until his flesh dissolved to soil and his hair sprouted into purple heather-horns, his fingers securing him into the ground as plant-roots; he could lie there until his breath became nothing but wind in the heather, and his eyes decayed to starlight, and his body was tenderly broken into nothingness. He could lie there as the world passed by, until no one knew the name Cadvan of Lirigon anymore, and he no longer felt loneliness or suffering or sadness. It was an image Cadvan found comforting, and he mulled on it for some time, some semblance of peace reaching his expression at last. 

As the party continued down the North Road they passed several farms – generous holdings with large expanses of land reaching behind. People ran out to watch as the Bards passed, children leaping through the heather and waving excitedly. When Cadvan had last visited Pellinor it had been winter – the air had bitten at his face, and the landscape was dominated by dark, earthy tones. Pellinor in young springtime was something else altogether. The further they rode, the more the masses of purple and green became enriched with new colours, interrupted by lazy swaths of wildflowers and tall, shaking planes of grassland. Great, fat flowers with blood-red petals as big as dessert spoons watched the party pass; their jet-black seeds were used to make powerful sleeping and pain-relief draughts. Bright yellow flowers no larger than the nail of Cadvan’s smallest finger grew in strange circles here and there, and within the circles no other flowers sprouted; it was thought to be bad luck to break the circle, but good luck for lovers to kiss in one. Cadvan himself remembered playing games with these same circles at Lirigon, hopping in and out of them in turns while other children clapped faster and faster. He kept his eyes peeled for that tell-tale flash of blue – the star-shaped Dawnflower, particular to the most northern regions – but he spotted none so far from the base of the mountains. 

Gradually, the expanses of field broadened, the farmhouses becoming denser, until they hit the little hub of trade-dwellings immediately outside the walls of the School. Here, the Bard Road petered out into a simple, well-worn dirt track, then into a bustling market high-street. Vendors were set up in their stalls, shouting greetings to the new arrivals and waving seductively at their wares. Farmers presided over immense mounds of fruits and vegetables, brushing shoulders with bakeries and butchers and bonbon-makers also selling their foodstuffs; tanners patted fussily at strung-up lengths of dark leather; book-binders talked passionately with customers, examining damaged books and shaking or nodding their heads; beside them, tall stacks of notebooks and ink-bottles and quills and pens wobbled precariously; and, fawned over by men and women alike, an entire row of parasol-covered stalls holding heavy, multi-coloured bolts of fabric. Atop Darsor, Cadvan just about caught the odd wink of gold thread from deep within the shadow of the stall-shades. This was one of Pellinor’s greatest exports – a particular type of brocade fabric woven and embossed with deceptively complex designs, often in brilliant hues. The very finest brocades were woven with silk and gold- or silver-thread, but as Cadvan passed through the marketplace he saw many people wearing more durable brocades made of wool or linen. At a closer look, he also saw many of these homelier fabrics sitting in equal pride of place alongside those of more costly make on the stalls, and admired with near-equal appreciation from the customers. Pellinor Fesse, Cadvan knew, was also famed for its forges, which produced an extremely robust metal called Istrian Steel. Istrian Steel was very easily recognised by its white-silver hue and chill sheen; the paler the tone and bluer the shine, the more highly skilled the maker. The quality of this metal was paid full justice by the skill of Pellinor’s armourers and weapon-smiths; hopeful apprentices often travelled many leagues for the chance to learn their closely guarded secrets. However, there were no weapon-stalls selling Istrian Steel out at market that day – such items were extremely dear, and as such were either inherited or commissioned directly from the forge. Nevertheless, this lack seemed to make no difference to the people of Pellinor; the market was bursting with life. The merchants must be doing well from this Gathering, Cadvan thought. So many Bards in one place, many of whom would have had far to travel, would undoubtedly be a great boost for local trade. 

Ever-present, looming over the Fesse like the caring glance of a parent, was Pellinor itself. While from afar it looked placed directly against the mountainside, it was actually some little distance away from the base of the mountains and set upon a rise which overlooked a great blue lake. This lake sat like a still looking-glass of unfathomable depth up to the very foot of the mountains themselves, and stemmed directly from mountain streams, making its water some of the purest in all of Annar. However, from the approach from the North Road, it remained hidden behind the rise. Pellinor, crowning the rise, looked as if it had grown from the very bedrock, crafted by ancient hands and moulded like a clay pot straight from the mountain-stone upon which it sat. The walls surrounding it were latticed with natural vines and climbing plants; the poisonous kind were particularly encouraged, acting as another means of defence against intruders. Children of Pellinor quickly learned how to identify dangerous flora and fauna. The innumerable glass windows seemed as if they were gilded in the sunlight, a welcoming promise of warmth and safety set into a sprawling mass of towers and arches, halls and rooms. As Cadvan looked up, he thought he sensed watching eyes from one of the towers – then he blinked and the sensation was gone. He shook his head a little. Of course they were being watched – a travel-harried pack of thirty-odd Bards kicking up dust outside the walls was certainly a sight to behold. 

They did not need to halt at the gates – the guards had seen the Innail party coming from a long distance off and had already made way for their entrance. The Innail Party (and add-ons) thundered through the doors with all the dignity and poise of a dog stuck in a muddy puddle. To an ignorant onlooker, it would be difficult to believe that these dirt-splattered, exhausted people were pillars of learning and lore. Even Cadvan sighed as they breached the outer circle. Beyond the gate was an immense, irregularly shaped courtyard from which many paths led off into the rest of the castle complex. Pellinor, like Innail, was so remote as to not need very many Circles of construction, within which a whole city would live and work, so Cadvan found himself immediately plunged into the heart of the School of Pellinor. The clatter of horse hooves and wagon wheels echoed off the pale stone walls – servants and stable-boys clad in Pellinor garb were waiting to welcome their guests – but Cadvan hardly noticed. The sense of restless anxiety he had attributed to the group’s slow travel pace had amplified tenfold. Without thinking, he threw himself from Darsor, hitting the ground at a run. 

“Cadvan?” Sylvia cried to his retreating back. He did not stop, darting down a side-corridor between two buildings to the sound of Sylvia’s confused questions. He did not know where he was going – he just knew he had to get away from that racket. He ran until his lungs burned and he was forced to stop, wheezing against a pillar. Dully, he wondered where he was, how far he had come – his practical knowledge of Pellinor’s geography was limited to the public meeting-halls and library rooms where his business so often took place. He had no pretensions to its secrets. And he had no idea where he was. 

Before he could fully summon his faculties, Cadvan’s attention was arrested by the sound of voices. The open walkway within which he was still panting was open on each side to several pretty gardens or resting-places. In truth, they were designed to allow natural light to reach the deeper rooms in the castle, but they were not immune from the tell-tale Bardic eye for beauty. The walkway, fan-vaulted and wide enough for three horses to ride down side-by-side, broadened into a modestly sized courtyard a little ways from where Cadvan stood. It was from that direction the voices came, and it was in that direction that Cadvan’s feet led him. He felt firmly that silence was of the utmost importance, and so he crept rather than strode under the final arch before the clearing. 

And there he froze. His heart beat very fast. He felt like he had strayed into a waking-dream. The courtyard he looked upon was broad, round, and utterly drenched in sunlight. The centre of the open space was dominated by a wide fountain crafted in three tiers, all in the shape of arum lilies. Thin streams arced from the middle of the lilies and were caught in the breeze, shattering to vapour which threw a hazy rainbow in the sky. A woman was perched on the edge of the fountain, gazing into the depths of the basin. Even though Cadvan could only see some of her face, he saw enough to know that was extremely beautiful – skin dark as ebony shone in the sun, looking as if it was lapping up the light like a cat joyously laps up cream. High, broad cheekbones lent her face a noble quality, and full lips smiled absently. Her body was draped fabric of a rich, bright, impossible hue of blue, punctuated all over with tiny glinting-golden suns. Her wrists were encircled with rows upon rows of gold bracelets, as were her ankles – and, Cadvan noted, she was barefoot. Her great mass of hair, like an immense black cloud, haloed her face in a riot of fuzzy, twisting curls. Cadvan took a step forwards, thawed, for this was a woman he knew well. 

“Ouranos!” he called, hand raised in greeting “Well met, old friend!” The woman’s gaze snapped to him. Her lips stretched into a grin, and she rushed to meet him, her arms spread wide. They embraced. Upon closer examination, Cadvan could see the details of her ensemble more clearly. She had rimmed her eyes in some substance matched exactly to the colour of her dress and some tentacles of her hair had been bound in tiny braids secured at the end with gold beads. Her dress was made of some extremely fine material so that even when she stood still the breeze made it dance and flutter. The overall effect was of extreme vitality and almost otherworldliness. In fact, the only reminder that she was of his own mortal kind was the brooch pinned a fold of cloth at her shoulder, crafted in the shape of a many-rayed sun. The symbol of the School of Turbansk. 

“Cadvan – well met – so you have arrived!” she cried. She clasped onto his arm tightly, but Cadvan remained rooted, still looking at her. 

“What a sight you are!” he said “You shine like the sun itself! You look like some creature from the Ancient Times come to enact some mischief upon an unwitting victim.” Cadvan laughed, but noticed that Ouranos did not, but instead gripped his arm tighter. Cadvan had the strong sense that she was trying to get rid of him. He opened his mouth to speak, turning to peer once more at the placidly tinkling fountain, but was saved the trouble. Something erupted from the water, letting out a loud, rasping gasp. Cadvan jumped. By his side, Ouranos sighed. 

There, standing thigh-deep in the fountain basin and breathing heavily, was a young woman. Cadvan saw inky black hair plastered down an angular face – he saw piercing blue eyes – he saw a white summer shift, utterly soaked through – then he swivelled on his heel, covering his eyes for good measure. Beside him, muffled as if she were covering her mouth, came Ouranos’ laughter. 

Maerad stood in the water, frozen with shock. She had been diving for a fat golden earring that had fallen from Ouranos’ ear and into the water. But it had been difficult – the bottom of the fountain was mosaiced in white, pink and shining gold tiles, and the floor sloped deeper as it moved towards the base of the sculpture. Underwater, her vision blurred, each golden tile had looked roughly the right size and shape to be her friend’s earring. Maerad had dived once, twice, then moodily resolved that if she couldn’t get it on the third try, she would have the groundskeeper drain the basin. She had dived again amidst peals of laughter from Ouranos. She had seen it just as she was about to surface for air, and kicked manically towards it despite her burning lungs, not certain of her ability to find it again. It was with triumph that she had burst from the water, the blasted item held tight in her fist – only to see that Ouranos was no longer alone, but in the company of a scruffy stranger in dark, travel-worn clothing. A man. 

Maerad was torn between disappearing her entire self back under the water, breathing be damned, and waiting there until Ouranos dredged her up, or leaping the fountain edge and sprinting for cover in her sopping wet undergarments. But Maerad did none of those things. Instead, she found herself straightening, standing tall, her shoulders thrown back. She raised her hand in the traditional Bardic greeting, looking into his face steadily. This seemed too much for the man – he turned his back to her.

“My greatest apologies,” he said calmly, and ran from the courtyard. Maerad watched him go, her mouth hanging open. What had just happened? Ouranos, left suddenly alone in the middle of the courtyard, exploded into howls of laughter. 

“ _That_ ,” she said, between fits “was the great Cadvan of Lirigon. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him move so fast in my life!”

“ _Cadvan_ of Lirigon?” Maerad repeated “The Saviour of Pellinor?” 

So, Mearad thought to herself, that was Cadvan of Lirigon? She had heard much of him but never met him. Although she understood he was a highly-regarded Bard and did much in the service of the Light, it was difficult for her to reconcile the larger-than-life tales she had heard with any one man. This meeting had done little to inspire any of the awe-filled respect in her that she noticed in others who spoke of him. In the two seconds in which she had met his eyes, his expression had reminded her very much of Cai’s when he was caught doing something he ought not to be. 

“That’s the fellow,” Ouranos nodded, sweeping lazily towards the bundle of clothes heaped on the ground against the fountain “although, by the red setting sun, don’t address him as such.”

“Why?” Maerad perched against the fountain’s rim, swinging her legs from the water. Ouranos shook out and handed Maerad her dress, a breezy forest-green creation suitable to the warmer season and, thankfully, easy to put on wet. Not that that had been the plan that morning, Maerad thought to herself firmly. “Does he dislike it?”

Here, Ouranos paused, tapping her lower lip. “No,” she finally said, “I don’t think he does, although he never says as much.” 

Maerad arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment any further. Instead, she held out her hand.

“Here,” Maerad said “and mind you don’t lose it again. I can’t always be around to find your lost baubles.” 

“Here,” and instead of taking the earring, Ouranos reached up to her own head and placed the other earring next to the first on Maerad’s palm “they’re yours now – consider it an early Naming gift. All the stuffy old lot will try to give you practical things like books and scientific devices or paper or whatever it is you Readers like to have. You need something _beautiful_.”

“Ouranos! I couldn’t – they must be solid gold!” 

“Hmmm, yes, mined from the famous Beldep mines in the rich heart of Turbansk.”

“Ouranos! Such an extravagant gift. . .” Maerad begun, but Ouranos held her hand up, silencing Maerad. 

“Firstly, you are the daughter of the First Bard of Pellinor, soon to be a full Bard, so if you are not already used to extravagant gifts then I recommend you become accustomed as swiftly as possible. Secondly, to refuse a gift is rude, even if it’s very a horrible gift – which these are not – so don’t make me tell your dear mother that you have placed the relationship between the Schools of Turbansk and Pellinor in jeopardy over a pair of earrings.” Here, Ouranos winked “And thirdly,” she added with mirth “if you truly _cannot_ accept a loving gift from a dear friend, then consider that you have paid the worth of these silly things thrice over purely by the sight of Cadvan of Lirigon fleeing this courtyard in the face of no greater terror than a scantily-clad girl swimming in a fountain.” And once more, Ouranos was lost to laughter. This time, Maerad joined her, clasping Ouranos’ arm within her own. Anyone watching from the windows overlooking the courtyard might have presumed the pair were sisters by the way they hung upon one another; the wall and the buttress, each providing support to the other. 

Maerad’s fingers closed around the gift in her hand, all the more precious for their dip in the fountain. She had always looked with lust upon Ouranos’ many, many earrings, which followed the curve of her ear from lobe to tip on both sides. When Ouranos wore her hair up on a big pile on her head, or in hundreds and hundreds of tiny braids right against her scalp, her rows of earrings glinted in the light like the flash of a blade. _I could wear them to my Naming_ , Maerad thought eagerly, _to honour her_. Mama would be proud of her for making such a decision, and they would look so beautiful with the dress she had chosen – but Maerad had a sudden thought. Her stomach dropped. 

“My ears aren’t pierced!” she moaned. Piercings were a matter of tradition as well as beauty in the South, but they were not common amongst Northern folk. Ouranos was quick to reassure. 

“I will pierce them,” she said simply “if you would allow me.” 

Maerad was intimately acquainted enough with Southern traditions to know that what Ouranos was offering was a great honour. Knocked speechless, Maerad could only reply with a nod. Ouranos beamed. 

_Maerad_ , a voice settled in Maerad’s mind gently, like a caress. Her mother’s voice, calling to her. 

_Yes, Mama?_

_The Innail Bards are here – and there are some here who wish greatly to see you once more_. An image of the main courtyard flashed through Maerad’s mind. 

Maerad’s heart leapt. She gripped Ouranos’ hand tighter. 

“My mother summons me,” Maerad lurched forwards, placing a kiss on her friend’s cheek “I must go!”

“Yes, run!” Ouranos cried, needlessly, for Maerad was already dashing away “I will see you at the Welcome Feast!” 

“Yes!” Maerad called over her shoulder “And thank you for the gift – both gifts!”

Ouranos’ laugher echoed behind Maerad as she raced through the main thoroughfare. Pellinor was a large school, and so all the main ground-floor spaces were connected by large outdoor-corridors called the Mains. These corridors were open to the elements, but always under cover so that they were functional, if not pleasant, in all weather. While Maerad typically preferred to slip through the many back corridors and hidden passages that laced through the castle, the Mains were doubtlessly the fastest way to get from one part of the castle complex to the other. 

Maerad ran past many people as she went but did not stop. Her home, always humming with activity, had come alive in the past week as Bards from far and wide had arrived for the Meet. Many she had met before – like Ouranos, whom Maerad had met while in Gent and become fast friends with, or Nepha, a naturally nervous Bard of Norloch some years younger than Maerad who was extremely good with ancient languages but not real people. Being the daughter and eldest child of the First Bard, Maerad was fabulously well-connected. However, there were a few Bards still unknown to Maerad – like this Cadvan of Lirigon – usually from far-off Schools who had suffered the long journey to the remote Pellinor in honour of the Meet. Increasingly, Maerad had felt the need to escape the confines of the school, stealing short spans of solidarity in hidden spots – certain corners of the orchards, dusty sections of the library, the castle roofs at night. The latter was a favourite, particularly since Maerad had begun to be plagued by nightmares some weeks ago – 

Maerad broke out into the main courtyard. It was a great heaving mass of activity. Bards swished in every direction in their dusty travelling clothes, exclaiming with relief at their arrival. Horses shuffled impatiently for their turn to be led to the stables by stable-hands, and servants shuffled to get to the wagons, already heaving boxes of supplies off towards the kitchens. Maerad saw more familiar faces in the helpers than the guests; growing up at Pellinor, even the servants and stable-hands brought in from the village to help for the Welcome Feast were well-known to her. Several nodded their heads in greeting as she passed – and these greetings she returned. 

It didn’t take much straining for Maerad to see what she was looking for. At the far end of the courtyard a stone staircase undulated up from the hay-strewn floor. It reached to meet a long balcony which jutted out from the wall and ran all the way around the sides of the courtyard, overlooking the entire entryway before the gates. The balcony had the dual advantage of lending ceremonial pomp to formal situations and providing a final line of defence during attacks. At the top of this staircase, waiting patiently, were four people: two men and two women. All hailed Maerad’s approach with eager smiles. Maerad took the stairs two at a time, holding her skirts up to her knees to prevent tripping, and crashed straight into an open set of arms. 

“Silvia!” Maerad wheezed. 

“My dearest Maerad – you’re wet as a little frog!” Silvia crooned, stroking the girl’s dripping wet hair – but, of course, she was no girl, Silvia reminded herself. She pulled back to examine Maerad. No, she was certainly not a girl any longer. “How wonderful to see you, after so long – it is a crime you do not visit Innail more often.” 

“I hope to travel more once I am Named,” Maerad practically beamed “oh, Silvia! How I have missed you!” To Maerad, Silvia was much like a favourite aunt, rarely seen but greatly treasured. When Maerad had visited Innail at thirteen – one of the first times she had travelled without the company of her parents, with only Cai and Ilmari, a teacher-Bard of Pellinor – and gotten her first period, it was Silvia who had soothed her fear and given her medicine to control the pain. It was Silvia who had reminded Maerad of the words Milana had told her often – that the bleeding was nothing to fear, but a blessing that brought women into their power. And it was Silvia who had stroked Maerad’s hair in the baths, and allowed her to use the special oils imported from the furthest reaches of Edil-Amarandh – “for this is a very special day”, she had said with a smile – and given her a special dinner with just herself and Malgorn and Cai that evening. Maerad knew that, had she been there, her mother would have done just the same things; but she had never forgotten that it was Silvia, kind, gentle Silvia, who had given Maerad her first taste of what it felt like to be a woman. 

“Sweet girl!” Silvia cried again “Look at you – it feels like only yesterday you were so tall as my knee – oh, how much you have changed, and how much you have not! But – little frog – why is your hair wet?” 

“She learned to run the same day she learned to walk, and has not stopped running ever since.” A deep voice chuckled indulgently. Maerad shot her father a grateful look, glad he would not press her about her wet hair. Something told her she would be answering his questions later, however. Maerad extracted herself from Silvia only long enough to launch herself at Malgorn. Malgorn had taught her more about animal husbandry than she could possibly have learnt at home – he had a touch with the animals that was unmatched across all the Schools. It was thanks to Malgorn’s teaching that Maerad had been able to help a local farmer’s prize cow safely deliver a difficult colt two summers ago. It was Malgorn who had gifted her a ratty grey wolfhound puppy born with a malformed leg – the leg had to be amputated, but he was treated no less loving. Ilia now enjoyed a life more closely resembling that of an over-grown, spoilt house-cat in the apartments of the First Bard of Pellinor. Malgorn met Maerad with just as much fondness as Silvia, if a slightly more restrained embrace. When she pulled back from him, his eyes were slightly pink and he was blinking very rapidly, but he only expressed mock disgust at how cold and damp she was. 

“Where is Cai?” Maerad asked quickly. 

“He’s just –” Milana said, but was interrupted by a loud bang. At the furthest end of the balcony, diagonally across from the small group, a door had been thrown open with such force that it bounced back from the wall. From it burst a tall, dark blur. The blur bolted down the walkway, footsteps so heavy Maerad could feel the vibrations through her boots, skidded around a corner, then another, and then it was coming straight at them. Dorn, Milana and Maerad quickly backed against the wall. Maerad saw a white flash of teeth in a warm-skinned face, the bounce of brown curls against a high forehead, before the blur rammed head-long into Silvia and Malgorn both at once with a whoop. 

Cai had his own set of precious memories centred around Silvia, Malgorn, and Innail. Some he shared with Maerad. For instance, Maerad had been there when Cai had fallen out of a tree just outside the Pellinor walls when he was six – she had cried just as loudly, as if it were her wrist, too, that stuck out at such an unusual angle. Malgorn, tending to the animals at a nearby farm, had heard the noise. He had thrown them both over his shoulders and ran them the short distance back home, muttering in the Speech the whole while. He had soothed Maerad as she strained and scratched and bit to follow Cai into the healing houses where Silvia had rushed him; and he continued to soothe her as wept with relief when, a short while later, Silvia had led a sniffling but calm Cai out with nothing worse than a splint on his hand. Although they didn’t realise it, such memories were just as powerful to the adults as they remained to them. 

But – more importantly, Maerad knew – Cai had his own set of experiences that personally bonded him with the two dear friends of their parents. Much like his sister, Cai saw the two Bards of Innail as family. 

“You shot up like a weed, young Cai.” Malgorn was laughing “You’ll be challenging Saliman for height soon.” 

Maerad recalled the immense, merry Bard from Turbansk and privately had her doubts. Cai favoured their father in being tall and dark – Maerad, paler and smaller, favoured her mother in all but her jet-black hair – but Maerad was certain Cai would be forever skinny. The cooks at Pellinor were yet to find a meal he would not finish, a cuisine he would not try, and yet it only ever seemed to make him grow upwards, not outwards. 

“We’ll be able to compare at the Welcome Feast tomorrow night,” Milana said “Saliman has sent word he is set to arrive tomorrow morning – a delay along the road, some unexpected happening – you know what he’s like.” Silvia smiled indulgently, a silent agreement, and returned her attention to the two siblings vibrating with excitement before. While both young, there was certainly little of the child left about them anymore. Maerad was, at twenty-three, a woman of her own right, and had stepped into her maturity. Gone was the adolescent roundness of the jaw, the fullness of face – in their place was a woman with high, arching cheekbones, her mother’s nose, and a certain sharpness around the eyes that Silvia had not seen before. Cai was the same – eighteen, and the softness of childhood all but banished to reveal a new sharpness, a new maturity, that had not been there before. But both still had something wild about them – was it in the eyes, or the forever wind-tufted mops of hair that fell into the siblings’ faces in that exact same way? Perhaps it was that funny way of holding themselves that Silvia sometimes noted in Milana, with a strange sense of energy and power that went beyond what strength that muscle or Gift might explain? Or – perhaps – it was something else altogether, something Silvia shied away from even as it passed through her mind. Whenever she looked too long at the siblings she found herself momentarily believing the ludicrous rumours of Elemental blood in the House of Karn. . .

“Dear friends, you must be tired from your travels,” Milana said “come – we have your usual room prepared. Maerad, Cai, you will walk them? I must greet Oron. . .” with a nod, and a warm squeeze of her hand on her friends’ forearms, Milana descended the stairs. Dorn, giving similar farewell along with a mock-firm look to his children that clearly said “behave”, followed Milana down the stairs but veered off in the direction of the stables. 

Suddenly, Cai turned his head to Maerad and scrunched his face up. 

“Maerad, you smell awful,” he said bluntly “have you been swimming in the big fountain again? I told you. . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that fountain scene inspired by a certain similar scene in 'Atonement'? Perhaps. If it ain't broke.


	4. Fine Food, Fine Wine and Fine Company

The effects of Cadvan’s panic-ridden flight were not witnessed solely by Ouranos and Maerad. He was still panting, Darsor cantering bemusedly up to him, when he broke into the main courtyard. It was significantly quieter – in fact, the only remaining occupants were Milana, Dorn and Oron, who were engaged in deep discussion. However, Cadvan’s flushed appearance was sufficient interruption. They all turned. 

“Cadvan of Lirigon!” Milana was the first to step forwards, jolted from formality by the strange look in the usually sedate Bard’s face “There you are! Oron tells us you travelled with the Innail party from Ettinor but we did not see you amongst the arrivals.” 

“Yes,” Cadvan said “I had to attend to something first, before stabling Darsor.” Cadvan was still confused by the overwhelming urge that had come upon him, propelling him forwards like a summoning. If he closed his eyes and tried very hard to recall it, he thought perhaps it might have had a kind of sound – like a voice, beckoning in some speech Cadvan did not know. Or maybe it was better described as a sensation, like an itch that was within his head, unreachable – maddening. Was this some kind of magery? Pellinor was well-known for producing extraordinary Bards; Cadvan would not be surprised if several of the students here exhibited Gifts some way off the common track. Or perhaps it was just Cadvan’s impatience for solitude after travelling for a week in such a large, cumbersome group. _And look at where your solitude took you_ , he thought to himself dryly. The image of the young woman flashed into his mind yet again. He forced it out. 

“Business already?” Dorn quipped “Mere moments after entering the walls of Pellinor and Cadvan of Lirigon charges off the attend to matters of the Light. No doubt you were seeking out your hosts?” His tone was stern, but his face laughed. 

“Dorn!” Milana chastised, but Cadvan waved her off with a generous smile. 

“He is right, Milana,” said Cadvan “already I lax in manners. _Samandalamë_.” Hand over heart, he bowed to Dorn and Milana, then stepped forwards to embrace each. Both Milana and Dorn were Bards some decades older than Cadvan, although with the blessing of the Gift neither of them appeared to exceed forty or forty-five years of age. Dorn’s black hair, longer than Cadvan’s, was streaked with silver, and there were joyous, crinkled lines around Milana’s eyes. 

“You must dine with us tonight,” Milana insisted “if you can bear it. You could regale us of tales of your travels, and play for us – you might even finally meet my children.” Milana cast a wry glance at her husband, who snorted softly. “You, too, Oron, if you are at liberty.” Oron regretfully declined, citing a pre-standing arrangement, but Cadvan happily accepted. 

“But now, I must tend to Darsor,” Cadvan said “or I fear I will be trampled for my neglect before I get so far as dinner.” 

“Then go!” Milana dismissed merrily “I will send someone to guide you to your room. Dinner is at seven.” And, with a parting command not to be late ringing in his ears, Cadvan bent his feet in the direction of the stables. 

The Pellinor stables were well-kept and expansive – luckily, for they were bulging at capacity. Cadvan found Indick there, checking over everything with such meticulous detail that the Pellinor stable-hand beside him looked close to a stroke. The sight of a late arrival did nothing to help his mood. 

“Darsor will have to share one of the larger stalls,” Indick ordered gruffly, pointing “and if he doesn’t like it, tell him it’s his rider’s fault.” 

_I am sorry, old friend_ , Cadvan told Darsor, to which he let out an unimpressed huff of air but did not object. Cadvan led him towards the far stalls, all occupied but large enough to comfortably keep two horses for a short while. Darsor dismissed each stall – and its occupant – save for one. It contained an extremely fine white mare with grey splodges over her back. She was eating from her hay-bale, but looked up curiously as Cadvan and Darsor drew near.

 _Greetings, fine horse_ , Cadvan said, _what is your name?_

_I am Mila_ , she replied. 

_I am Cadvan of Lirigon, and Darsor from the Far Eastern Planes. May we share your stall for a short while?_

Mila consented, turning immediately back to her hay, and Cadvan led Darsor into the stall. He made quick work of removing Darsor’s saddle, brushing him down and making sure he had everything he needed to be comfortable. When Cadvan reappeared from the stables, he found a figure waiting some distance away. But it was not some minor Bard, as Cadvan had expected, or even a harried-looking servant. 

“Dernhil!” Cadvan opened his arms and embraced his old friend warmly. 

“Cadvan!” Dernhil laughed “When Milana mentioned your arrival I volunteered to guide you to your rooms. It has been too long!”

Indeed, it had been a very long time – perhaps six or more years – since Cadvan had last lay eyes on Dernhil of Gent. Cadvan realised this with a jolt when he examined his friend. He seemed. . . different somehow. Cadvan’s strongest memories of Dernhil were of a perpetually tired-looking young Bard, forever holed up in the library at the whims of his own devising, and of that horrifying night Cadvan had summoned the Revenant. The Dernhil stood before Cadvan matched neither of those memories. His skin was paler from the recent long winter, but it glowed with health and another kind of flush Cadvan could not place. His pale brown hair was cut in a shorter style that was very becoming, and the Pellinor style of robe he wore also suited him. For a moment, Cadvan wondered if this truly was the same man he had known during his days studying; but then he saw the familiar ink stains on Dernhil’s fingers, and the habitual tightness in his shoulders, as if he were constantly expecting to be pushed over, and knew Dernhil as his friend of old. 

“You look in fine health,” was all Cadvan could find in himself to say. Dernhil let out another laugh as they begun to walk from the stables. 

“And you look a beastly state, as always,” Dernhil responded “you always have some fire up your tail. Milana said you did not even wait to greet your hosts before charging off into the depths of Pellinor on the call of some task or another.” 

Cadvan’s eyebrows pulled together. That was the second time Dernhil had mentioned Milana by name; this, in and of itself, was not unusual, but it was the tone he used. It spoke of some familiarity which had not been there before, almost kinship. Cadvan did not recall Dernhil having any great friendship with the First Bard of Pellinor beyond the customary. Although Cadvan knew Dernhil to be a rare friend, and a great man – perhaps one of the greatest Cadvan had ever known – he was also shy and quiet. He did not form friendships easily, although many wished to be his friend. 

“Do not fear for me,” Cadvan joked “I shall change my clothing, and I shall bathe, and shave, and eat a fine meal or two, and you shall see: by the time of the Welcome Feast I shall resemble respectability once more.”

“Speaking of meals!” Dernhil cried “I have persuaded the cook to prepare some mushrooms from the woods hard-by, and to prepare them in the Innail way you so like – will you not join me for dinner? There’s. . . there are a few people I would wish you to meet.” Dernhil said the last in such a way to make Cadvan take a glance at his friend. There was something uncertain yet defensive in his eyes. 

“Alas, I regret I am promised away this evening.” And Cadvan did regret it. He could tell Dernhil was trying to say something of import. And, more importantly, Cadvan realised quite suddenly that he had truly missed Dernhil. It had been many a year since they had last seen one another, and Cadvan was full of eagerness to reacquaint himself with his friend. But Cadvan had given his word, and his first duty of manners was to his host. Dernhil brushed off Cadvan’s apologies. 

“Not to worry,” he said lightly “I am getting ahead of myself – for, after all, we are to have a Welcome Feast in a day’s time! Anyone to be met will be met there.” And that was that. Cadvan sensed the topic had become closed. But who did Dernhil wish for him to meet? Pellinor was a famous School, to be sure, but being so Northernly it often enjoyed limited company, with the only passers-through being the occasional nomadic Bard. For the first time, Cadvan wondered about Dernhil’s sudden decision to stay on at Pellinor. From what Cadvan understood, some twelve months ago Dernhil had received an offer from Oron to stay at Innail and assist in teaching. Dernhil, much fond of Innail, had agreed, and set off on an arching route from Gent via Lirigon and Pellinor. Only he had never reached Innail – he had arrived at Pellinor and never left. What discovery had Dernhil made in Pellinor that had derailed him so utterly from his plans? 

Dernhil led Cadvan through the school, chatting lightly about inconsequential matters. When he asked if Cadvan had written anything of note recently, Cadvan bashfully confessed to a few scribbled stanzas. Dernhil was delighted and instantly let loose a torrent of plans to meet and discuss poetry. 

“You are, of course, performing at the Gathering?” Cadvan pressed. 

“Yes, I have been convinced.” Dernhil’s ears went pink “I will read some of my new work.”

“Oh?” 

Dernhil nodded. “There is much to inspire in Pellinor.” He said simply. Cadvan looked around. They were passing through a small corridor; one side was bare stone, interspersed with plain wooden doors. The other was made up of large glass windows in set-back alcoves spanning from about hip-height to almost the ceiling. The alcoves were fitted with stone benches, making a pleasant resting spot for any passers-by, and beyond the windows was a breath-taking view of the great green masses of farms and meadows that made up the walk-way to Pellinor. Yes, Cadvan thought, there is much to inspire here. 

However, Dernhil led Cadvan away from the front of the castle, right through its centre, and towards the back. Cadvan rapidly became lost and surrendered to Dernhil’s capable navigation. This part of the castle was removed from the hustle and bustle of the main School, although still buzzing with activity. Cadvan doubted whether there would be a single secluded spot in Pellinor for the duration of the Meet. Finally, they passed through a set of immense double-doors carved with tangles of arum lilies, down a wide, quiet corridor, and stopped before a door. Cadvan thanked Dernhil for his guidance and, with a parting promise to see one another at the Welcome Feast, if not sooner, Cadvan was left to himself. He opened the door. 

The room within was comfortable and spacious. A large four-poster bed, bedecked with pillows and blankets, dominated much of the space – its thick curtains, now drawn back, would be vital protection from the cold in the winter months. At the foot of the bed was a cassone, an intricately carved chest typically given at wedding ceremonies and used to store household items. This one looked very old, perhaps an heirloom belonging to a long-dead former Bard of Pellinor – Cadvan was struck by its beauty and made pause to examine it closely. Without, all sides were decorated with moments from the great love story of Enoch and Igrine, both of Pellinor, the scenes wreathed with fictive lily vines. Within, the chest was filled to the brim with neatly folded blankets; the inside lid of the chest was painted with a rather eyebrow-raising illustration of Enoch and Igrine’s passionate reunion. _Definitely a wedding gift_ , Cadvan thought, closing the chest. 

In a far corner of the room was a writing desk, well-stocked with paper and writing implements, a bulging bookshelf, and a robust-looking wardrobe. The near wall was almost entirely taken up by a fireplace, before which was a well-stuffed chair and small table. To one side of the fireplace, half-hidden behind a fabric screen, the curved toe of a copper bathtub glinted temptingly. Pellinor was unique in being built atop a span of earth which allowed the heat from deep within the ground to seep out. Pellinor’s builders took full advantage of this, employing clever ventilation systems to channel the warmth around the castle within its very walls, meaning that the castle would remain warm even in a blizzard. This earth-heat was used to warm immense tanks filled with water from the lake, and the hot water was channelled through pipes to great taps dotted regularly around the castle, so that within a quarter-hour any resident could have a steaming-hot bath within the privacy of their own rooms. It was a luxury Cadvan planned to indulge fully. 

But what caught Cadvan’s attention was not in the room at all. Directly opposite the door, on either side of the bed, was a series of tall, thin windows which, bulked together, allowed fat squares light to pour into the room. Through those windows, a breath-taking view of the lake and, beyond that, the snow-capped mountains were clearly visible. Cadvan stared. It was a view he had seen before – one of his favourite in all the world – but still it amazed him. The last time he was in Pellinor, in mid-winter, the daylight hours had been few. The lake had been frozen solid; in the day, the people of Pellinor would skate on its white surface, twirling around like leaves caught in the wind, and in the night its black expanse had shone in the moonlight like a tarnished mirror. It ran from the foot of the rise on which Pellinor was built all the way to the base of the mountains; the immense mass of water was over twenty miles at its longest, and deeper than anyone had never been able to discover. It was a source of both beauty and eery discomfort. The mountains were no less impressive for being far away – they still loomed up jaggedly into the sky, grey veined with white, immovable and resolute, like sentinels. Cadvan had seen the winter-time streaks of green-blue light dance above those mountains, their movement echoed on the surface of the lake. He had seen the late summer sun catch on them, turning white snow into glittering diamond and grey rock into gold. He was reminded that these mountains that provided protection to Pellinor were part of the Osidh Elanor, a long string of mountains that set a border between North Annar and the great expanse of Northern Lands beyond. If he were to follow the Osidh Elanor far enough west, he would eventually find himself back at his beloved Lirigon. 

Cadvan sighed. He almost wished he had this evening to his own liberty, so that he might take his dinner in his room and watch the night fall around the mountains and imagine he was home. It would be too early in the year for the Dancing Lights, but the night sky would still twinkle with stars, too many to count, and these mountains still felt like his mountains. 

Without reason, his mind turned to the girl in the fountain. Cadvan did not push her away, but let the memory float at the forefront of his mind like a leaf caught in a puddle. It was the mountains that had reminded him, he thought. She was wild, and jagged, just like they were. There was something of their strength in the way she held her arms, the jut of her jaw. There was not a doubt in him that she was a Bard of Pellinor, that these mountains were in her blood. The thought of her made him feel an odd sense of dread. He realised that was why he had run – not from embarrassment, or in appreciation of her attire, which was rendered all but see-through from the water. When she had burst from the fountain so very unexpectedly and he had looked her in the eye – when she had straightened her back, as if daring him to look – he had felt a sense of foreboding so strong it had felt like he, too, had been thrown into the icy water. Even now the recollection of her made his heart speed in fear. As if she were some creature, rather than just a young woman. But was she just a young woman? She had looked preternatural, otherworldly, like something conjured of wind and water and sunlight, not a being of flesh and bone. No more tangible than the water-vapour rainbow formed above her head by the fountain spray. If Ouranos had not been there, Cadvan would have thought her a hallucination. 

_Well_ , Cadvan said to himself, _you will find out soon enough. For if she is a Bard she will most certainly be at the Welcome Feast and you may meet her or ignore her at your will._

With that discomforting thought in mind, and the significantly more comforting prospect of a day’s buffer between now and then, Cadvan set about the long process of washing the road-dirt from his skin. 

By the time Cadvan had finished bathing, he felt like an entirely new man – and, examining himself in the little mirror on the wall, he looked it too. Gone was the raggedy footpad, and in its place a much-respected Bard of Lirigon. He was clad in the finest clothing he had with him, which in this case came in the form of a clean shirt and trousers, hastily brushed-off boots and his riding cloak (freshly ridded of horse hair and mud flecks). Cadvan’s Star of Lirigon brooch pinned the folds of his cloak back in such a way that made it seem fine and distinguished, and – helpfully – hid several worn patches that needed repairing. _Now if only I didn’t feel so tired_ , he thought. 

Cadvan stepped from his room and immediately realised he didn’t know where he was going. Milana had not mentioned how to find them for dinner. He stopped a servant passing by. 

“Excuse me – I wonder – where is the First Bard dining this evening?” 

“In her own dining room, Lord Cadvan.” The servant, a young man, responded. 

“Ah. And where would that be?”

The young man blinked, then pointed. “Just down those stairs, sir. Third door on the left, but you should see it right off.” 

“Thank you,” Cadvan said absently. He looked around. This wing had felt different from the rest of the School – more intimate. Now Cadvan realised why. His room was not just one of the many guest rooms that speckled Pellinor; it was a guest room in the First Bard’s family wing. It was a great honour. Cadvan was still digesting this information when another door opened, and a familiar figure stepped out. 

“So, we are to be neighbours once more,” Malgorn said soberly “I do hope two doors and the space of this corridor sufficient to muffle the sound of your snoring, or Pellinor may find itself without a Saviour once more.” 

Cadvan let out a bark of laughter and clapped his friend on the shoulder. Silvia came out a moment later, resplendent in a soft pink gown which simmered gold in the candlelight. Her long hair had been let down from its plait, and it fell about her shoulders in a rippling sheet of dark red. Cadvan bowed to her. 

“A vision of Autumn!” Cadvan cried “How beautiful you are, Silvia.”

“And I see you have tidied yourself admirably.” Silvia nodded in approval. She was not surprised to find Cadvan stationed in the family wing – he had done so much for Pellinor that if he had asked for the Great Hall to be set up as his personal suite of rooms Milana would have seen it done. “I might even say you look handsome this evening.” 

“High praise indeed for such a fine purveyor of beauty.” Cadvan said. Malgorn coughed pointedly, and Cadvan turned critical eyes on him. “My word! But how could I miss this apex of majesty I see before me! Blinded by the reflection, I failed to see the source of the light! Malgorn of Innail, the Dashing Rogue himself, stood before my very –”

“Yes, yes, you’ve had your fun,” Malgorn interrupted with an eye roll “you know full well I was hurrying you, not steering your honeyed words in my direction.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cadvan said innocently “is this cloak of Turbansk make. . . ?”

“Gentlemen, we keep our hosts waiting.” Silvia said. She had already set off down the corridor – Cadvan and Malgorn hurried to catch up. Malgorn took her arm in his, but glanced back at Cadvan, trailing happily behind. 

“It is, actually.” He muttered, fiddling with the embroidered lapel of his cloak proudly. His ears were very pink. Cadvan made an impressed face and nodded his approval, to which Malgorn’s ears reddened further. 

The servant was right; the dining room was easy to find. Unlike Silvia and Malgorn’s residence at Innail, which was a self-contained house, Milana and her family’s residence was more like an undulating array of rooms and halls that interconnected in a large circle. The wing must have been located within one of the immense towers that stabbed into the sky, Cadvan thought as he followed Silvia and Malgorn down a winding staircase. And he was correct, mostly – what he _hadn’t_ realised was that the family wing was, in fact, the entirety of the North Tower. When she became First Bard, Milana had selected it – then a somewhat remote, disused wing of the castle – for her own use. Newly married, with hopes of having a family amongst her ambitions for Pellinor, she had known even then that maintaining a normal family life would be difficult. So, the family wing was made deliberately and pointedly separate from the main School. It was a decision Milana had never regretted. 

The floor at which Cadvan had entered the tower was one of the upper levels, and it was fully occupied with bedrooms, as was the floor above. The floors below were far more open – a inter-connected set of living spaces designed for welcoming guests, holding small gatherings and the general practicalities of family life. With the last rays of light from the setting sun fading, most of the light in the room came from rows of sconces and hanging candle-lamps marking a trail through the corridors. The trio followed the lamps to the dining room, where they found Dorn squeezing dishes onto a slightly too-small table. He greeted the new arrivals warmly, asking how they found their rooms, and encouraged them to take a seat while the last of the food was brought out. Cadvan gazed around hungrily; steaming plates of roast beef glazed in red wine, crispy potatoes still sizzling in their pans, buttered cabbage with chestnuts, a half-sliced loaf of bread nestled amidst a fan of cheeses, preserves, chutneys and fried fruits. Filling the gaps between plates and food were elegant wine glasses waiting to be filled. And there, placed prominently on a tall stand like a crown on a cushion, was an immense mound of dark mushrooms dripping in sauce. 

Dorn saw Cadvan eyeing up the dish hungrily. “They arrived not five minutes ago.” Dorn said, his eyes sparking “A welcome gift to you from our mutual friend Dernhil of Gent! There might even be enough there to satisfy your cravings, eh, Cadvan?” Cadvan was touched by Dernhil’s kindness. 

“Yes, but what about everyone else?” Silvia quipped “Cadvan does not have the monopoly on fungi.”

Cadvan was prevented from asking who else was expected by Milana’s arrival. 

“Sit down, sit down!” she urged fondly “Anywhere at all, it’s alright.” Everyone shuffled, and Cadvan found himself placed between Silvia and Dorn. However, Dorn did not stay placed for long; he had hardly sat down before he was up again, making offers of refreshment. Malgorn threw himself whole-heartedly into the discussion, and the two of them crowded around the side-table, where a neat forest of wine bottles and decanters awaited inspection. Silvia rolled her eyes at Cadvan and, with a murmur, went to fetch the bottle of Innail laradhel from their room. She returned in short order, holding it aloft dramatically and thus settling the bickers that were breaking out over the wine. 

“Those two!” Milana tutted happily, sweeping around the room with additional serving spoons. With the extremely capable, matter-of-fact air widely associated with the First Bard, she circumvented the table, gently placing the spoons into various dishes. It was such a pleasingly homely set of actions that Cadvan’s attention was momentarily riveted – he watched as the flickering candlelight glinted off the silver spoons, smiling to himself slightly dreamily. He looked up to Milana, mouth open to make some comment or another – but a figure in the doorway caught his eye. The words died in his throat. 

A tall, slim woman stood at the threshold. The candlelight in the hallway rendered her little more than silhouette – Cadvan saw the shape of her shoulders, the curve of her neck, her hair pulled up around her head shapeless mass, the flair of her skirt off her hips. He went to speak, some word or name pressing up his throat, but the sound ended almost as soon as it had begun. If he had known what to say – anything at all – he would have cried it then without any hesitation. But his tongue had gone to say something his mind had no ability to supply. He fell silent. 

The woman entered. Milana hailed her. 

“Anais,” she said warmly “wonderful, thank you – just place it down there and then you’re free to go.” 

The girl stepped forwards. The dining room light fell onto her face, revealing curves where – Cadvan felt sure – there should have been edges, shortness where there should have been length. No interrogative, haunting gaze – no pitch-black hair. The servant girl – for, by her attire, servant girl she was – set down a large covered tray on the sideboard and departed. Cadvan let out a long, shaky breath. 

“Who was that?” Silvia asked. She had noticed Cadvan’s strange reaction to the new arrival and, understandably, had drawn the wrong conclusions. 

“Anais – she’s apprenticing under Moyanne in the main kitchens.” Milana tucked herself into a seat “She has much to learn yet, but I must say – she makes the most divine pastry.” 

“Oohhh,” Silvia spared a curious glance at the tray on the side-board before turning to Cadvan “you seemed like you knew her, Cadvan?” 

“I thought I did,” Cadvan replied with deceptive cheer “but, alas, these old eyes are playing ticks on me. Distracted, I dare say, by all this magnificent food!”

“Gentlemen!” Milana cried, and Dorn and Malgorn turned expectantly “Has an agreement been reached?” 

Dorn and Malgorn looked at one another amusedly, and confirmed their agreed-upon compromise – a dry, surprisingly strong Pellinor wine made from frozen grapes for the main meal and, of course, Innail laradhel for dessert. Cadvan looked around, frowning, but Silvia beat him to the question. 

“Are we not expecting Maerad and Cai? I was so looking forwards to spending more time with them.”

“And I – I confess – to meeting them,” Cadvan concurred “it seems so strange that I have not met the children of two of my dearest friends.” 

“If children they can still be called, with Maerad a blink’s length away from her Naming.” Dorn said somewhat forlornly “Soon she shall be tearing across Annar with no thought of her old home School. Already she wriggles free of these mundane dinners with her parents.” 

“As one so often accused of tearing across Annar at the slightest opportunity, I can assure you that a beloved home is never forgotten.” Cadvan said firmly. Dorn did not respond, but gave the younger Bard a grateful look. Milana spoke into the silence. 

“Dorn, you do our children a disservice.” Said she, with the air of one soothing a much-inflamed annoyance “Maerad is undergoing special preparations for her Naming with Ouranos. She said did not know how long it would take; and I imagine, in light of the great gift Ouranos is bestowing upon her, Maerad will not be keen to reject an offer to dine if it is proffered.” 

“Ouranos? Of Turbansk?” Malgorn said “What preparations can she have to offer a Bard of Pellinor?” 

Milana shared a look with Dorn. Shared between them, Cadvan detected, was pride and love. . . and a ripple of unease. Something within him perked to attention ever so slightly. 

“Ouranos has offered to perform a traditional Turbansk rite on Maerad to honour both their great friendship and the strong ties between us, the Northern-most, and they, the Southern-most, Schools of Edil-Amarandh.” 

“That is a great honour!” Silvia cried. Cadvan could not but agree. While the actual process Naming was common to all Bards across Edil-Amarandh, different Schools often had different rituals or ceremonies surrounding the Naming which aligned with their own particular cultures. Turbansk, so very small a nation even if also so rich, was well known for being protective of its own culture, and the Naming rituals in particular were shrouded in secrecy. Even Cadvan only knew the loosest of details. Milana, beaming with pride, could only nod. 

“And what of Cai?” 

“Irremovable from the Houses of Healing. One of our farmers as brought in only an hour ago. A cart fell on him and from what I gather he has some very complex injuries. Cai was asked for expressly by Andromeda.” 

“He must be talented, to be asked from thus by her. Is he apprenticing at the Houses of Healing?” Cadvan asked. He had had very few run-ins with the gruff, capable Head of Healing at Pellinor but even his short acquaintance left him in no doubt of her immense skill and power. 

“Yes,” Dorn nodded, and again that cloud of uneasiness clouded the man’s face. 

“Well,” Cadvan said abruptly “I, for one, am glad for their absence for my own – fully selfish – reasons. I hear Cai has become something of a bottomless pit, forever eating and growing – and now, with him absent, I will have no one to challenge me!” 

His statement had the intended effect. A ripple of laughter encircled the room, banishing any awkwardness brought about by the absent Karn children. With no attempt at pretence, Milana urged everyone to help themselves – and for the rest of the evening, there was only pleasant talk to be had, spurred on by fine food, fine wine, and fine company.


	5. Strange Happenings

For Cai, the evening was progressing very differently. As soon as he had received the summons from Healer Andromeda he had known this would not be a simple matter of herbs and broth. He had hurled an excuse to his parents on his way out the door and practically flown to the Houses of Healing. 

Upon arriving, Cai’s suspicions were confirmed. The farmer had been moved to a private room, but his cries of agony were audible even from outside the building. That alone was enough to make Cai’s back break out in a cold sweat. No matter how many times he saw people in pain, it never got easier. It always felt like the first time. Any lingering at the door was immediately overcome by a second mind-call from Healer Andromeda urging his swift arrival. She was not the kind of woman to ask twice. Cai hesitated no longer. 

His distress was compounded upon discovering that the injured farmer was no stranger, but in fact a friend. There, writhing on the bed despite the best efforts of three Healers to keep him still, was Roy Hanssun. Almost every day of his remembered life Cai had walked past Roy at his stall in the main market, sharing greetings or perhaps short conversation. A farmer by profession only, Roy was a fine story-teller, and took great joy in particular in the telling of how he lost his fingers – the tale ending with a dramatic revealing of his right hand, on which his middle and index fingers were mere stumps jutting up from his knuckles. He could still wiggle these stumps, which had given Cai no end of delight when he was a young boy. That Roy seemed an entirely different man to the one before Cai. 

“At last!” 

A tall, sturdy-looking woman shuffled up to Cai, her brows set in a severe line across her forehead. Healer Andromeda. Cai hurried to meet her. 

“I –”

“Can we not do anything for the pain?” Cai interrupted at once, shooting discomposed glances at the still yowling Roy “Some Houndsleaf – or perhaps a grizzle of Oil of Eulei and Baraaba –”

“Now is not the time to be testing new concoctions, Cai!” Andromeda snapped, partly because of his interruption “We have tried Houndsleaf but it is having no impact – the pain is too strong. So far we can only see what injuries are physically apparent – not what is going on underneath – and he will only do himself more harm unless we can immobilise him.”

“What happen –?”

A great crash drowned out Cai’s question. Roy had flailed so wildly to avoid the grasp of a Healer that he had crashed to the floor, dragging his mangled leg with it. Cai stood out of the way as the Healers rushed to help, his mind racing for a quick solution – but found that, temporarily, it was not necessary. Roy, the pain of his fall being so severe, had fallen unconscious. The sudden silence was even more unnerving than his screams. 

“Right, let’s use this time while we can,” Andromeda announced “Hadrien, Typaxa, go to the herb room – fetch gauze, paste, splints, anything needed to clean and bind the visible injuries. Lyra, go with them, bring me Oil of Eulei, Barrababane, Mugswort, and the dried Blue-vein mushrooms.” The Healers lingered only long enough to heavy Roy back onto the bed before scurrying from the room. Only Andromeda and Cai remained. She turned her gaze to him. 

“You know what I need you to do, Cai.” 

Cai’s stomach sank to his toes. He knew. He approached Roy. The beside chair had been thrust violently away in the fall and now lay on its side in a corner, one leg broken, so Cai perched on the side of the bed. Cai placed a hand on Roy’s and closed his eyes. 

_Deep breaths. In. . . . Out. . . . Deep breaths. . ._

Cai sat bowed over Roy’s prone form for several long seconds. Nothing happened. In a burst of frustration, he spun away from the bed. 

“It’s not working,” he growled.

“Try again.” 

“It’s not – ”

“Try. Again.” Andromeda insisted “Concentrate. Imagine I’m not here. Imagine you are alone. It’s just you.” 

Cai sighed. He took up Roy’s hand again. But he did not do as Healer Andromeda suggested. He neither concentrated not pictured himself alone – but rather, he took a deep breath and, with the exhale, let his mind go with it. 

_Out. . . . In. . . . Out. . . In. . ._

At the edges of his hearing came a few soft notes of music. He let go further, feeling himself drift closer to it as if drawn by some external force. The music came louder. He could feel it now, vibrating under his skin pleasantly. He no longer needed to balance his breaths – now that he was here, it felt so easy, so natural, and holding back was the true difficulty. The music thrummed ever louder. 

_. . . Cai. . ._

Cai surrendered. 

_A buffet of feeling hit him all at once. Pain from every direction, throbbing, stabbing, aching, oozing pain. It was everywhere. . . everywhere except his toes. He could not feel his toes. He tried to wriggle them but found he could not. He searched and saw in his mind’s eye a bludgeoning of injuries – most of one leg shattered, the calf bone broken through the skin and bleeding profusely, the knee a mess of snapped tendons and bone shards – a dangerous crack to one of the lower vertebrae – a creeping pool of blood stretching out around his stomach – a broken nose and orbital bone – severely bruised hip –_

Movement. Cai’s eyes flew open, at the same time heaving in an immense breath. Roy had come to, interrupting the tenuous, intimate examination Cai had been performing. He felt like he was being run through a kaleidoscope – one part of him saw the healing room as he had entered it, with Roy’s mottled body arching on the bed, blood seeping onto the bedsheets – and other was still within, observing and feeling Roy’s contracting muscles and searing wounds – he heard Healer Andromeda cry out in The Speech but, as Roy, heard it only as strange, terrifying gibberish. He knew these Bards, had known them all his life, but he was in pain and scared, he wasn’t thinking. 

“. . . Cai! Cai!” Healer Andromeda was calling his name. Cai turned to her – she flinched. She hardly knew him. All boyishness was banished from his features – his strange, sharp, almost unpleasant features were accentuated somehow, like his bones had ever so slightly shifted. _Or perhaps it’s just the light_ , Andromeda told herself hopefully. She knew it was not. When he looked in her direction, his eyelids were drooped in a lazy, drugged kind of way, hardly recognising of anything they saw – so why did Andromeda have the urge to hide all of a sudden? Beneath those heavy lids, Cai’s pupils were blown so wide Andromeda could hardly make out his irises at all. When he spoke, it sounded strained – there was a strangeness to his voice that Andromeda couldn’t put her finger on, but which made all the hairs on her body stand on end. She felt that she desperately didn’t want to hear what that voice had to say, not one little bit, not ever. 

“Shattered right knee joint.” Cai reported emotionlessly “Full break of the right calf and further fracture of the thigh bone. Internal bleeding around the stomach and kidneys. Cracked –”

Roy’s body arched again. Something changed. 

_No!_

“NO!” Cai yelled. He both felt and saw when it happened – an inconspicuous little pop – and Roy’s entire body slumped. Cai suddenly no longer sensed any pain – he felt nothing at all. Softly, the reek of excrement wafted to Cai’s nose. Without thinking, he grabbed Roy’s hand tighter and threw himself into the recesses of his mind. 

Cai was a pebble skidding across the frozen lake, spinning through the nothingness. And nothingness it was – for there was no music to gently discover and follow, no soft welcome. Just thick, pressing blackness, depthless. Cai curled himself up tighter, smaller – he spun faster. He let his desperation take over – he flew further – he was no longer Cai, no longer a Bard, no longer anything at all – he was nothing but a pinprick of light, barely blinking into existence, quivering in the face of the darkness like a candle in the wind. So easily snuffed. He was nothing but fear and loneliness. 

He felt something. A brush, like of a hand against his forehead. It felt familiar – as did the noise that echoed from somewhere in the darkness. That same song as before – always the same song. 

_. . .Riik. . .Cai. . ._

He spun towards the music. There was another glimmer in the darkness – so bright and so small, like a far off-star, like him. He was drawn to it without even thinking. As he drew closer, it grew brighter and brighter, until all he could see and feel was the blinding white light burning through him. 

_. . . Cai. . ._

_Cai?_ He called to the light. _Who is Cai?_

 _You are Cai. Riik. The Listener. The Music. Cai._

_Yes, that’s right. I am Cai._ Memories and sensations flooded back. He was Cai of Pellinor. He was in the Houses of Healing. A man’s life was at stake. 

_How do I help him?_ Cai cried. The light pressed on him further, pushing into him with white-hot fingers. 

_Let me help you,_ the light whispered, _together there is nothing we cannot do._

Before Cai could do anything, the light stabbed through him. He heard himself cry out – whether in pain or pleasure he could not rightly say. He had been wrong to think of the light as a far-off candle – it was a roaring wildfire burning right through him, searing his body and mind in an endless tirade. Dimly, he felt a set of hands on his body, trying to pull him away. He frowned with annoyance – but no sooner had he noted them then they were gone, and he was once more unimpeded. Power poured in a thick torrent through him. There was no subtlety now – no need for elegance or delicacy with power such as this. He channelled it through him and over Roy’s crippled body like a winter blanket, covering him in wave after wave of white fire, watching as tendons regenerated and bones snapped back into place under his relentless power. It coiled around the spinal column, wrenching it back into place with a sickening crack, the shimmering spinal cord fresh and unbroken once more. And still Cai let his power flood through the man’s body, crashing against it mercilessly. 

_Cai. Stop._

_And why must I stop?_ Cai thought to himself, watching as his power seeped into decades-old scars, replacing them with fresh pink skin, new bones and tissue – 

_Cai, you must stop._

The light began to morph and recede. Where the light used to be white and hard as a star, it now seemed to soften and fade. It was no longer white, but a shade of blue that seemed almost familiar to Cai. The fire drained from his limbs, leaving him feeling cold and lifeless, as if unable to prop himself up any longer. 

_Do not go!_ He cried. _Don’t leave me all alone!_

He tried to reach out for the light, but it slipped away from him still. There came no response – and now the light was no longer blinding, but soft – no longer soft, but vanishing. It undulated like ripples of mist. Cai was about to cry out again, feeling as if his heart would burst from misery, when there came that feeling once again, like a hand tenderly brushing his forehead. This time he recognised the touch at once. It was his sister, Maerad – she always stroked his hair like that and sung to him when he was poorly or tired. He grabbed hold of the sensation, and with a snap Cai was jolted from the dark recesses of his mind. Where he was instead had no look, but instead a feel of immense love pulsing from all directions. He knew with absolute certainty that here he was safe – and realised, belatedly, that he had not been safe where he was. Here, he was back within the known part of himself. This was where Maerad sat in his mind, her own little pocket enveloped in their love for one another. Music thrummed under his skin once more, only now he could recognise it – lullabies sung to them in their childhood, play-songs they had taught one another, all as familiar to him as his own face. 

_You are not alone. Come back and stay here with me, Cai._

Cai had a momentary image of a low lit room – of air hung so heavy with spices that he could taste it when he breathed – of the slippery but not unpleasant feeling of oil on his palms and throat – of something cold and hard against the side of his throat – before the image was snatched away again. 

_I am here_ , he said. He did not know whether he spoke just to Maerad in his head or out loud as well. All he knew, as he opened his eyes, was the pale face of Healer Andromeda and the bright light of the moon through the healing room window – before his vision glazed over once more and he keeled over onto the cold stone floor.


	6. Bumps in the Night

Cadvan was not a heavy sleeper. After several decades sleeping by the sides of roads, with any number of enemies potentially nearby, he had wisely developed the habits of sleeping lightly and rousing quickly – along with other, more concrete habits such as always having his sword within easy reach. These habits had all been very well when travelling alone, with only the wind through the trees and Darsor’s snoring to prick his ear – but it was less useful, say, when travelling in a large group of rather pampered Bards for over a week, or when staying in a large castle absolutely stuffed to the brim with Bards who absolutely refused to keep to civilised hours. 

So when Cadvan was awoken by a slamming door for the third time as many hours, it was with no small measure of dissatisfaction. With even more annoyance, he realised that this latest disturbance had not travelled up to him from somewhere within the bowels of the castle, but had stemmed from the other side of his bedroom door. Before he realised what he was about, he was on his feet and wrapped in a hastily-donned robe. Cracking open the door, sharp words of censure were already poised on his frowning lips. Then, at the sound of voices, he hesitated – something in the hushed tones of their voices stayed him. Power brushed against his skin, making the hairs on his forearms stand on end. 

“. . . go to prepare his bedroom. I will stay with him tonight.” It was a voice Cadvan didn’t recognise. Soft footsteps hurried past. Cadvan strained to see through the crack in his door, but only saw a shadowy figure disappearing down the hall. 

“Thank you,” came the tired rejoinder. Dorn. Ah. Concealment no longer seeming an appropriate precaution, Cadvan pulled the door open further and stepped out into the gloom. Dorn was stood not very far from Cadvan, the shadows clinging to his figure. There was a great heap of something thrown over his shoulder. 

“Is everything alright, Dorn?” 

“Cadvan!” Dorn’s expression was startled into one of such shock and guilt that Cadvan wondered if he had been too fast to reveal himself. From the other end of the hall, the sound of a closing door tore Cadvan’s gaze into the shadows – and by the time he turned back to Dorn, the older man’s expression had smoothed into something much calmer. “Yes – in a sense – Cai has exhausted himself in the Houses of Healing. A regular enough occurrence – he is strong, but still has much to learn about his limitations – but this time was. . .” Dorn did not seem to be able to finish the sentence. Cadvan could not see his face clearly in the deep shadows, but thought he saw his hands tighten on the heap over his shoulder. Cadvan realised that this heap was Cai, wrapped in a dark cloak. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cadvan supplied generously, smiling “please do let me know if I can be of any assistance – although if Healing is needed, Silvia is a far fairer hand at it that I.” 

Dorn let out a slightly forced laugh. 

“Thank you for the offer, Cadvan, but I think food and rest will put him in fine shape by tomorrow afternoon. I’m sorry for disturbing your slumber.”

“I was already awake,” Cadvan reassured him and, with another parting wish for Cai’s quick recovery, Cadvan turned back into his room. However, he was not reassured. The magery he had felt in the hall still prickled at his skin, receding only slowly. It did not have an active feel about it, and Cadvan might expect from a spell being actively performed. It felt more like an echo, or a stain in the air – but not of the sort Cadvan had encountered before. It clung to him for some several minutes, and even when it had faded its reminder remained in Cadvan as a feeling of deep unease. This feeling of unease – that there was something he was missing – remained with him until he fell once more into a fitful slumber. 

The following day it seemed a hectic, harried pall had been net-cast over the entire School; servants were running to and fro since before the dawn readying yet more rooms for the expected last-minute arrivals; the Kitchen staff had hardly seen sleep, busy concocting everything necessary for the Welcome Feast that evening on top of the stresses of providing breakfasts, lunches, and any number of in-between-meals that the hoard of Bards at their doorstep required. In this latter endeavour, the typical Pellinor cooks were not unassisted – many Schools travelling as a group had brought along their own trusted servants, who in their turn brought with them their own skill and knowledge of their School’s cuisine. While this was a welcome supplement to the permanent Pellinor kitchens (itself already bolstered by help brought in from the village), organising and managing the resulting conglomerate of hands was a job that fell, eventually, to Milana. Therefore, when Cadvan descended to the dining room of the evening before to break his fast, he was in fact met with only one of his hosts. 

“Good morrow, Cadvan!” Dorn smiled quietly, grasping a small steaming cup between his hands. Cadvan blinked, then responded to Dorn’s greeting a beat late. For some reason, he had been expecting something different from the peaceful scene before him. Perhaps, in the wake of last evening’s revelrous dinner, seeing the modest dining room so still was what jarred him. Or perhaps it was Dorn’s serene presence which startled him – perhaps he had been expecting it to be deserted, or in an entirely different state altogether. If Cadvan had been susceptible to doubting his own memory, he would think his mid-night disturbance – Dorn’s harried, caught expression in the deep shadows of the hallway, his son’s body thrown over his shoulder – had been some trick of the mind. 

“What a bounty!” Cadvan cried – and he was not wrong. The dinner-table, which last night had been so thoroughly covered with plates of delicacies that Cadvan had not been able to see the table itself, was now far more modestly but no less impressively arrayed. It was clear that, in order to provide the warmest welcome to their house-guests, Dorn and Milana had provided a little bit of everything their guests might favour to break their fast. Little triangles of golden-brown toast stood to attention in a silver rack, waiting suggestively next to several little bowls. These bowls, Cadvan surmised, contained various jams, butters and toast-toppings native to Pellinor tastes. A somewhat larger, wider bowl contained a wobbly, gently steaming mound of scrambled eggs, and beside that was a larger-still vat of creamy, ivory-coloured porridge, a favourite amongst the Northernmost Schools. The smell of the porridge instantly thrust Cadvan back to his youth at Lirigon, where every morning he would smell that hot, oat-y scent drifting from the Great Dining Hall. It had not been an uncommon occurrence for Cadvan to linger long in the library, pouring over books or manuscripts; very often, it was only the smell of porridge drifting in from the immense kitchens down the way that would make him look about and realise he had been reading all night long. This memory, like all memories of Lirigon, was bitter-sweet, settling like a heavy cloak on his shoulders, and for a moment he seemed to sag tiredly. 

Dorn was speaking. Cadvan tore his gaze to his host, attempting to catch the drift of what he was saying. 

“. . . rye-berry tea from our own farms,” Dorn was saying “or coffee from the Southern Planes?” 

Cadvan, smiling slightly, suggested his favour for _iradhel_ , a delicately-flavoured tea created by brewing a small array of dried herbs. It was a medicinally-beneficial beverage native to the Western kingdoms, and a preference Cadvan had partially developed because the herbs were one of the few portable luxuries he could provide himself on the road. Dorn begun preparing the tea, dipping a ladle into a cauldron of simmering water that Cadvan had not previously noticed in the fireplace. The scent of the earthy herbs soon roused Cadvan from the last dregs of tiredness, and he stepped further into the room, taking up a plate from the little stack on the sideboard. The smell of iradhel wafted around the room, an earthy, restorative kind of smell. It was very soothing. 

_And a mild sedative_ , Cadvan thought to himself, watching Dorn carefully tending to the tea, _if brewed in strong enough concentrations_. Cadvan knew by personal experience that _iradhel_ was a favoured tool amongst healers for soothing extremely anxious or hysterical patients. 

_Speaking of healers. . ._

“Cai is better this morning, I hope?” 

As Cadvan asked the question, he looked up at Dorn carefully, watching his expression. Dorn looked straight back at Cadvan. 

“My son is recovering well under his sister’s care,” Dorn reassured Cadvan. He smiled slightly, with an air of finality. 

“Ah,” Cadvan returned in good-humour “so the mystery of Cai and Maerad Karn remains! I remain curious to meet the children of my dear friends of Pellinor – I have heard much of them.” 

“From whom?” Dorn asked sharply. 

“Why, from our mutual friends, of course!” Cadvan maintained his merry tone “From Malgorn and Silvia, and Oron, too. Even Nelac of Lirigon had favourable things to report about Cai’s healing skills when I last him in two summers ago. I must confess I am already feeling the stings of envy – from what I have heard, between the two of them they are something of a force to be reckoned with!” 

Rather than seeming amused or proud, Dorn’s expression merely darkened. 

“You cannot trust all reports,” he merely said, “my children are gifted Bards, yes, but not out of the ordinary way.” 

Cadvan’s brows pressed together. Dorn had always seemed to him to be a most doting father, always eager to return to his family when Cadvan met with him abroad – that one poignant impression of Dorn cradling his child in that corridor in Norloch flashed through Cadvan’s mind. To hear such a dispassionate commentary on his own dear children seemed utterly out of character – in fact, Cadvan had suspected Dorn would be more prone to over-praising or even spoiling his children than denying them. 

“They are much loved by Silvia and Malgorn.” Cadvan reasoned, feeling almost compelled to convince Dorn of the worth of his offspring “Although Silvia is passionate by nature –”

“’Passionate by nature’?” a voice cried mildly from the doorway “Now just what is that supposed to mean, Cadvan of Lirigon?” 

Silvia swept into the room, a tart expression on her face. Malgorn followed a few seconds later at a more sedate pace, his eyes still half-lidded with sleep. 

“Good morn, dear Silvia,” Cadvan greeted sweetly, bowing slightly “and dear Malgorn, good morn to you, too.” 

A flurry of ‘good morn’s and ‘good morrow’s were exchanged, to which Malgorn grunted vaguely, and Silvia headed straight to the porridge-pot. 

“You will answer my question, Cadvan,” Silvia repeated mildly once she had taken a seat opposite him “I would _demand_ as such, but I am afraid I will betray my ‘passionate nature’.” 

“Peace, dear Silvia!” Cadvan laughed “I meant no offence. I was reporting to the anxious father in our midst all the great tales I had heard of his absent children, of which you yourself and Malgorn are my primary sources. Dorn denied their veracity, and I was making defence of your words.” 

“By highlighting my passionate nature?” 

“A point which was to be followed – _rapidly_ followed – by a testament to your honesty, objectivity, and general traits which would well qualify you as a true messenger.”

Silvia looked across the table at Cadvan for a moment. He knew he was out of trouble when her lips twitched. 

“Cadvan of Lirigon wriggles free of trouble once more.” Malgorn commented dryly. It seemed that his near-finished cup of ink-dark coffee had finally roused him enough to take stock of his surroundings. “Oh, that I had a silver tongue such as you, Cadvan.”

“Do not wish it, my friend.” Cadvan grinned “As you can see, it acts far more frequently as offender than defendant.” 

Throughout their exchange, the slightly clouded expression had not shifted from Dorn’s face, although he still attended politely to the conversation. He seemed almost wary, like he was listening for something in particular. 

“Where are Maerad and Cai this morning?” Silvia asked, as if only just noticing the empty room. She turned expectant eyes on Dorn and, like Cadvan had been just minutes beforehand, was shocked at the expression she saw there. 

“Cai overexerted himself at the Houses of Healing last night,” Dorn replied with a tight smile “Maerad is tending to him.”

“Oh dear! Is there anything I can do to aid his healing? I am sure there must be many duties he has to perform today to help you prepare for the Welcome Feast –” she stood as if to rush immediately to Cai’s bedside. 

“No!” Dorn cried sharply. 

Shocked, Silvia slowly sat back down again. She seemed too startled to speak. 

“Please,” Dorn said in a gentler tone. All of a sudden, he looked very tired. Cadvan wondered if he, too, had been up all night tending to his son. Such a level of care was touching, but entirely unnecessary if, as Dorn had professed last night, all Cai needed was food and rest. Silvia seemed to have made the same conclusions. 

“Dorn,” she said carefully into the silent room “is everything quit well? We here have been friends for many decades – if there is anything at all within our power that might be of use, you must tell us.”

Dorn hesitated. Then sighed. 

“Cai is still coming into his power,” Dorn said with a tight smile “he does not know his strength – in truth, neither do we, yet – but he also does not recognise his areas of weakness. He does not know when to stop. This has always been true for him – sometimes it seems he thinks himself invincible. Last night he attended to a particularly. . .particularly gruesome injury. He went too far and it worried Milana and I. That is all.” 

“It is just healing-exhaustion.” Silvia said soothingly “It will pass. When I was Cai’s age, I was forever fainting from too much healing. When you know you can help, it is difficult to choose when to stop. But he will learn to know how far he can push his limits.”

“Thank you, Silvia.” Dorn said, his expression softening. But the worried look in his eyes did not clear. “Now – can I get anyone any more tea?” 

From there, breakfast passed placidly, if not quite comfortably. Milana ran in at one point to make sure her guests were happy, but departed almost as soon as she arrived, a slice of toast gripped between her teeth. Seeing the First Bard’s industry inspired and guilted the rest of the party into action. Breakfast scraps were finished up, cups emptied, and plans announced. Silvia, wearing down on Dorn’s reluctance, finally convinced him to let her visit Cai with a small tray of food. Malgorn had plans to go around and give assistance at some of the farms outside the walls of the School, and was keen to get started. This was met with far more enthusiasm from Dorn, who could think of several farmers off the top of his head who had problems with their livestock or crops. As Cadvan’s plans were focussed almost exclusively around and after the Meet, he quickly resolved that the best thing he could do to help prepare for the Welcome Feast was to get as far out of the way as possible.


	7. Checkups

Silvia knocked on the door ahead of her, somewhat awkwardly balancing a large tray of food against her hip. This, she knew, was Cai’s room – from where she stood, the door to Maerad’s room was also visible, plain and inconspicuous as any other in the First Bard’s Tower. On this floor, too, sat the guest rooms – below, the communal spaces and above, Milana and Dorn’s space. 

_And that is only three floors_ , Silvia thought to herself, absently giving Cai’s door another rap with her knuckles. Once upon a time, the School of Pellinor would have been packed with young novice Bards, utilised to its fullest extent, no rooms left empty. There were accounts in the library of Innail of Pellinor being so overrun with Bards that novices were required to share their rooms with one another in order to accommodate them all, of study-rooms too small to fit the large classes being converted into bedchambers to suit the demands of incoming students. Silvia suspected that Innail had been no exception in this – indeed, if she had cared to, she would have found such accounts in any of the older Schools throughout Edil-Amarandh. Now, even with the upcoming Meet bringing Bards flooding in from all corners of Edil-Amarandh, the School was only approaching capacity. 

_How our numbers have dwindled_ , Silvia sighed. Pellinor suffered it worse than most. For a moment, Silvia remembered that black time just over a decade past in which Pellinor had come so very close to destruction. It was only luck that had saved it – Cadvan in the right place at the right time – but would luck continue to be enough? Her mind returned to the occupant of the room outside which she stood. What would have become of Cai and Maerad if Enkir had not been apprehended? Of Milana and Dorn and all the Bards of Pellinor? 

The tray Silvia held continued to jab into her hip uncomfortably. The cloud of uneasiness that had flushed through her became misplaced by annoyance. There was still no response from within Cai’s room. Shifting the tray on her hip, Silvia knocked again, slightly more sharply. 

“No response from within?” 

Silvia swivelled. Cadvan, clearly just emerged from his room down the way, was approaching. She saw amusement and curiosity in his eyes. 

“No,” Silvia responded, “I shall knock once more and, if there is still nothing, I shall just barge straight in.” 

“That I should like to see,” Cadvan smiled. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, in a pose that very clearly said: well, go on then. “Perhaps I could take that tray while you summon your strength? I’d wager I could be a fine serving-maid if instructed by your fair wisdom.”

Cadvan stepped forwards to take to tray, but Silvia swiftly dodged him. 

“I can manage _quite_ well on my own, thank you.” She responded tartly “Weren’t you going to make yourself scarce until the Welcome Feast? Do not tell me you donned such fine robes just to winkle your way into a young man’s room.” 

Silvia’s joke was not exactly inaccurate, although also not fully true to the mark. Cadvan was dressed in much finer raiment than Silvia knew he possessed – a rich purple robe made of fine, heavy fabric skilfully embossed with some twirling floral design in darker purple velvet. At closer inspection, Silvia saw these were in fact stylised arum lilies, their stamens tipped with shining gold thread. Confirmation, as if she needed it, that these were garments gifted to him from the First Bard for the duration of his stay. The robe was of the kind favoured by Scholars – simple in cut, long to the ground, secured at the waist by a leather belt – but it hung unusually well on Cadvan’s warrior-frame, exaggerating the strength of his shoulders and chest. The ensemble was finished off by a Star of Lirigon brooch, well-worn but newly-cleaned-and-oiled leather boots, the toes of which just peeped out from beneath the long robe, and Cadvan himself, who was also sufficiently cleaned-and-oiled, fed and watered and generally polished-up as to not shame the fine garment he wore. Overall, he looked almost like he might be the noble, well-learned Bard his reputation rumoured him to be. 

Cadvan laughed aloud. 

“You have caught me, Silvia.” He surrendered “I must confess I saw you here and thought ‘well, there would be a fine opportunity to satisfy my own blasted nosiness and make a nuisance of myself while I’m at it!’ – but I can see you’re in no mood to suffer me today, so I shall retreat to the Pellinor library until the sight of me is welcome.” 

“Go, go, begone!” Silvia agreed “Take your nosiness where it will be useful.” 

And with that, Silvia tugged on the door handle and disappeared into the room beyond with a twirl, leaving Cadvan with nothing to do but follow her instructions. 

Silvia saw immediately upon entering why no one answered her repeated knocks. Cai’s bedroom was homely but unusually neat for such a young man – there was a wardrobe and chest of drawers, a desk under the window, a bookshelf, and a bed. The wardrobe doors were left half opened, as if raided in a hurry; the chest of drawers was in similar orderly disarray, the top of it stacked with neat piles of knick-knacks and books; the desk was strewn with papers, opened books, unscrewed pens with inky tips; the bookshelf was fastidiously arranged and packed in so heavily that some of the shelves bowed in the middle; and on the bed lay the occupant himself, utterly drowned in blankets and draped by his sister’s sleeping form. And, as Silvia quickly noticed, awake. 

“Cai! How are –”

“Shhh!” Cai hissed “She’s sleeping.” His hand was resting gently on Maerad’s head.

“As you ought to be,” Silvia returned in mock consternation. She approached with her tray, setting to down on the little table beside the bed. “You will answer my question: how are you feeling?” 

“I’m fine,” Cai said annoyedly “I just over-expended myself. Why is everyone fussing so much?” Even as he said it, Cai was aware of how his arm shook as he tried to sit himself up a little. Silvia busied herself with the tray and pretended to ignore his scowl. 

“Nonetheless, I want you to drink all of this tea – all of it, do you hear?” 

“Is that brae-thorn tea?” Cai sniffed. 

“Yes,”

“I hate brae-thorn tea.” 

“If you wish to avoid it, perhaps you should learn not to over-exhaust yourself while healing.” 

When Cai did not respond, Silvia looked up from the tea-pot. The scowl had fallen from his face and he was looking at Maerad with strange intensity. His eyes shone.

“Cai?” 

“I got lost,” Cai’s voice was very quiet, “I was. . . so lost. I couldn’t find my way back – didn’t know who I was. I was nothing, just a speck of dust in an endless hall.” A shimmering tear slid down his cheek. A terrible feeling of dread settled in Silvia’s stomach. She looked at Cai and for a split second she didn’t recognise him – then his eyes looked to hers, full of confusion and fear, and he was the child she had known all his life, the boy who had wept on her shoulder and stolen cakes practically from the oven. Of course she knew him – he was practically a son to her. 

“When, Cai?” Silvia found herself kneeling at his bedside, grasping his free hand very tightly. Her hands shook, and she realised she was scared. 

The words came tumbling from Cai’s lips like a longed-for confession. The healing of Roy – how he had just intended to examine him and report back to Healer Andromeda, as they had arranged – but something had happened and he’d started healing by instinct – how he had become lost in himself. 

“It was Maerad who found me again,” he said softly, once more looking back at his sleeping sister “I know it was her – I just know. She was. . . she was like fire, but a good fire. She didn’t burn me – she called me back.” 

Silvia was extremely still. She was trying very hard not to let her face show her emotions. The tea was left, forgotten, on the side-table. 

“Cai, I must confess I have little knowing about what you speak.” Silvia said “And I must confess that that scares me. I have never heard of a Bard becoming lost in the way you describe – of losing control in the way you describe.” 

Cai nodded as if this were expected. He opened his mouth to speak – but whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a yawn. Silvia snapped into action. 

“But I can tell you that you still need more rest, especially if you wish to fully partake in the entertainments of the evening’s Welcome Feast! Come – you will drink your tea –”

“But it’s gone cold!” 

“– you will drink your tea and you will eat this broth I brought you – I even added your favourite Innail herbs! – and then you will stay abed until you can maintain a conversation for more than ten minutes without falling asleep.” 

Cai grumbled, but with the prospect of his favourite Innail broth steaming enticingly under his nose, his objections didn’t last for long. Within five minutes, both tea and broth were consumed and Cai was settling eagerly into his pillows once again. Silvia went to wake Maerad, certain that she had duties to attend to, but was stopped by Cai. 

“She’s tired, too,” he muttered, eyes already closed as he wiggled further into his blankets “leave her.”

Silvia hesitated, then obeyed. At the door, she looked back. Cai was already asleep, his head inclined towards his sister’s. They looked so similar, so peaceful. Silvia’s heart ached for her own daughter. She exited as quietly as possible. 

Outside, she was met with yet another surprise. 

“Dorn!” Silvia exclaimed. Dorn was waiting with a somewhat restless air just outside the doorway. He approached cautiously, seeming to read something in her expression. 

“Silvia,” his low voice was tired “I can hardly tell what you must be thinking. But if you would just – please, may we talk privately?” 

Silvia, with a nod, followed Dorn into his study. When she emerged a short time later, she was very pale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Cadvan's Scholar's Robe: my mental pin-board of Pellinor's native clothing styles and fabrics is very Fortuny. Fortuny tended to design mostly for women, but some of his hallmarks were classical shapes and rich, brightly coloured materials (particularly silks, which were fabulously micro-pleated, and stencilled velvets) so the kind of textures and patterns i describe here for Cadvan would be very similar to Fortuny's stencilled velvet jackets/tunics. The comfortable, layering-centric fortuny vibe would also fit in very well with the Pellinor lifestyle (which, being so far north and in a mountainous area, would necessitate indoor activities throughout the cold months) while also leaving space for more practical wear such as your tunics, hose, jerkins, and other must-have outdoor gear for someone in this kind of environment. It's also just a sweet look and i bet Cadvan would rock a robe. swishy swish.


	8. Old Haunts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK! for some reason A03 is being a pain and compressing all paragraph breaks into single-line jumps (so there's meant to be more space between the paras but sadly this blocky mess is all we're getting). I'm sorry, particularly since i rather like this chapter. the next is fine, i've checked, so bear with! Thanks you!

At the exact same time that Silvia was exiting Dorn’s study, Dernhil was also making a relieved and hasty departure from a meeting of sorts. Dernhil was a creature of habit – in his novice-days he had risen for classes at 6am and now, some many decades later, he still routinely arose at that same early hour and made his way to the library, where he would pursue whatever project had caught his interest until 9 or so, when hunger pangs would draw him away. These hours in the mornings he was happily used to occupying alone; so, when Dernhil entered the section of the library he was working in currently, it came as an unpleasant surprise to find that his neat little desk – with his books from the night before still carefully laid out and book-marked – was occupied. No, not merely occupied – walled in. It was practically surrounded by a group of some seven or eight Bards in some kind of discussion. By the tone of their increasingly strained whispers, Dernhil could tell that the discussion was rapidly dissolving into an argument. Looking longingly at his comfortable chair, slightly untucked from the desk as if beckoning for him, Dernhil approached. As he knew they would, the group immediately turned to him.  
“Dernhil!” one of the group had eagerly hailed him closer, suspecting that the great poet’s voice would reinforce his own. Dernhil had recognised the Bard and, while he held him in some respect, disliked his forceful way of approaching debates. With reluctance, Dernhil had allowed himself to become involved in the debate – smoothly suggesting a removal to one of the small adjoining antechambers when the debate went from hissed whispers to raised voices – and there he had remained for far longer than he liked. Finally, he had begged his leave, departing the room with a bow to cover his unmannerly haste – only to bump almost immediately into Cadvan. Cadvan begun merrily greeting his friend before noticing his expression.  
“What darkens your brow, dear friend?” he exclaimed, placing a hand on Dernhil’s shoulder. Dernhil, realising that he was frowning, attempted to clear his features. Unlike his friend, Dernhil had not the skill for disguise. Cadvan repeated his question once more, with slightly more force, and Dernhil found himself answering.  
“That group of Bards from the Western Isles,” Dernhil huffed “they were arguing like children over the Third Branch of Lamaiugh’s _Treatises on Ancient Undaran Runes_. Some said that it was ridiculous, riddled with such fallacies as to make it beyond use or value; some said it was the core of a literary achievement only accomplishable by a genius the like of which still lacks equal – a point which seemed to bruise the ego of more than one Bard present, which I suspect was partly intentional. Neither group was willing to listen to the arguments of the other. They were all of them far too old to engage in such behaviours.”  
“And what do you think?” Cadvan’s face was serious, but there was a slight crinkle of amusement around his eyes. Dernhil’s expression was so much like a frustrated School-master that Cadvan had to press his lips together to keep from laughing.  
“They are both correct – and, therefore, both wrong. Lamaiugh was a genius – there is no doubt – but his Treatises in the raw amount to several hundred loose, unordered pages of scribbled notes in a language we still do not fully comprehend. _Utterly_ unedited. I would know, I have seen them.” He added as an aside “There is no denying that he was a deeply learned Bard – but also that for as often as he seems to speak with incredible insight, twice so often his testaments border on the ludicrous. Part of the reason why there is such difficulty in translating the text is because he seems to make up words and neglects to clarify what he means with a definition or explanation – but wait! I think I hear a noise – come!”  
Dernhil skittered away to a nearby row of bookshelves, compelling Cadvan to follow suit. Cadvan did so, feeling not unpleasantly like a naughty boy attempting to steal sweet-pies from the kitchen. Near where they had just been standing, the doorhandle of a closed door rattled, then opened. Several extremely unhappy-looking old Bards shuffled out, throwing their books under their arms with distaste.  
“Oh, those old conkers!” Cadvan crowed “I got caught out by Harlan there last summer in Culor – he was banging on about the _Seven Scrolls of Brae_ ¬ I barely escaped with my sanity!”  
“And he with his tongue, I’d wager.” Dernhil joked back, then immediately regretted it. He looked quickly at Cadvan, but found him laughing.  
“Indeed! How did you find yourself embroiled in such a mess?” Cadvan asked. On the other side of the bookshelf, the door had swung half-shut once more. Dernhil sighed.  
“I allowed myself to be embroiled.” He said, “I foolishly thought I might mediate them to a satisfactory answer, or at least prevent them from falling into one another’s bad graces before even the Welcome Feast this evening. Milana has enough trouble to handle without that lot issuing challenges.”  
“You seem to have become very friendly with the First Bard,” Cadvan commented casually, “when last I saw you, you still nurtured a certain formal restraint around Milana. That seems to have since disappeared.”  
“It is true I had not much had cause to converse with her,” Dernhil replied, “but since my arrival here at Pellinor nearly a twelvemonth ago we have become much better acquainted. She is a great Bard, but not so formidable as once I thought.”  
“Indeed.” Cadvan nodded, then patted Dernhil cheerily on the shoulder “It seems the coast is clear! Let us hope that your morning tormentors will have forgotten their bickering by this evening, or you might find yourself dragged into the mud with them once more.”  
“Nonetheless, I shall do my level best to avoid them.” Dernhil said darkly. He shot another glance at his waiting desk, thinking of how far he might have progressed in his reading had he not been interrupted. The pang in his stomach told him it was past his usual time of repast.  
“Perhaps you should glimmerspell yourself into invisibility.” Cadvan joked “Then you may sit, undisturbed, to enjoy proceedings at your leisure.”  
At this, unexpectedly, Dernhil reddened.  
“I should not wish to remain unnoticed by _everyone_ ,” he muttered into his chest. Cadvan looked at him sharply, but Dernhil hurriedly continued before Cadvan could ask anything: “The day progresses fast and I am still yet to eat. Would you care to join me?”  
Cadvan could tell by something in Dernhil’s demeanour that the offer was only half-hearted but, determined to reacquaint myself with his friend – and perhaps in the mood to cause a little more mischief – Cadvan accepted. Dernhil smiled slightly, and together they slowly started towards the Dining Hall, which was only a short distance away.  
“I am surprised you have not yet broken your fast,” Dernhil commented – he was resolved on keeing the conversation on relatively safe ground “surely the First Bard and her family have not forgotten to pay proper service to their house-guests?”  
“Fear not, Dernhil; my every need has been most generously attended to by Milana and her household. More so, in fact. Why, if it were not for Milana’s fore-sight I would be standing before you now in my sleep-shirt. . .” Cadvan laughed, throwing his arms out grandly so that Dernhil might fully appreciate his apparel “. . .for that is the only remaining piece of clothing I own that is not road-dirtied and travel-worn! How shameful!”  
Dernhil, too, was wearing a scholar’s robe, just as finely-made as Cadvan’s but significantly less decorative. Also in Pellinor style, made of thick, soft wool in deep-green, the robe suited Dernhil’s tall, slight frame in the way it was designed to. Dernhil, not being a warrior or traveller like Cadvan, had no muscle for the material to drape or strain over attractively – but, nonetheless, the fabric did fall in long, attractive lines all the way from his sharp shoulders to the ground, where his slightly duck-footed toes peeped out. He looked very tall and erudite and unthreatening. Cadvan’s robe, being borrowed and therefore slightly too short, left his worn old boots uncovered from sole to ankle. The older of the Bard-scholars would be _quite_ scandalised.  
“I thought that robe too fine for your possession,” Dernhil smiled softly “I was trying to picture you setting up camp in some dark valley, within the very mouth of danger, sword at hand – but taking the time to ensure your fine Pellinor scholastic robe was properly pressed and folded in your saddlebags before settling in for the night. I could not picture it.”  
“Too right! Such luxuries are beyond my nomadic life,” Cadvan said cheerfully “and therefore they are all the greater pleasure to me now. With these robes, I am able to honour my hosts as they deserve.” Suddenly, Cadvan turned to Dernhil “Ah! But already I grow forgetful. How good it was, dear Dernhil, for you to send me my favourite dish from your own table. The mushrooms were all the more delicious with the knowledge that they were from a friend – thank you!”  
Dernhil blushed “It is nothing. I foraged them for you, after all – I know how you favour them, especially when you are in the North.” The pair were approaching the entrance to the Dining Hall – an immense set of double doors, currently thrown open, under a pointed stone arch. The stone framing was masterfully cut in the design of lily vines coiling and twisting all the way to the top of the arch, where they framed a fictive scroll made of pink-veined marble. On this marble was engraved a blessing welcoming all who came in peace and hunger to the hall. The blessing was written in such an ancient form of runic language that Cadvan doubted many Bards aside from himself and Dernhil would be able to comprehend it.  
“And foraged by your own fair hand!” Cadvan exclaimed as they passed under the arch.  
Dernhil blushed once more and merely muttered some more demurs. The Dining Hall was sparsely occupied – only a few small groups of students with late-start classes were sleepily dripping spoonfuls of porridge or scrambled eggs into their mouths. Since it was the day of a Welcome Feast, only morning classes were scheduled, giving the afternoon to students and teachers alike to prepare for the evening’s activities. As Cadvan and Dernhil approached the large table right in the centre of the hall, where great ceramic troughs were half-filled with the typical breakfast foodstuffs, a clock bell somewhere outside rung the hour. A few students scrambled to their feet and dashed out. As they passed, a few bowed and passed breathless greetings to Dernhil.  
“I did not know you were teaching,” Cadvan said with no little surprise. From what he knew, Dernhil had been travelling to Innail to accept a Librarian position. Cadvan had assumed that he was filling a similar role here at Pellinor.  
“Only a little, here and there,” Dernhil shook his head, serving himself a bowl of steaming porridge. Cadvan wrinkled his nose and headed towards the large tray of toast “but only a few students with particular Gifts, particular needs that cannot be fulfilled in a general class.”  
Cadvan nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, Pellinor does seem to produce Bards with particularly unusual Gifts.” He said, almost to himself. “So you are a Mentor?”  
“Yes,” Dernhil said, then hesitated “and no. More like. . . a supplementary mentor. I am not solely in charge of the entire education of a single pupil – Pellinor is old, but even here such old-fashioned systems are not employed. I have far more pupils than a Mentor would, and I teach them only on specific areas they cannot access in broader classes.”  
“Such as?”  
Dernhil finally looked up from his porridge. He levelled Cadvan a very dry look.  
“I would hardly be a good teacher if I discussed my students as if they were kitchen gossip.” He said. Cadvan bust out laughing, causing the remaining occupants of the hall to whirl about.  
“Quite right!” Cadvan said, still laughing “I, of all people, should understand the value of confidentiality. Let us take a seat and eat in peace.”  
If Dernhil thought that Cadvan having already eaten that morning would slow his appetite, he was wrong. Cadvan had piled his plate full of toast, butter, beans, sausages, and two boiled eggs, and as soon as he was seated, he steadily worked his way through the lot of it. Dernhil, eating at a much more sedate pace, was left to his own devices – for which he was thankful. It seemed he couldn’t go through a minute of conversation with Cadvan without landing on some awkward topic or another. _Cadvan does have a way of landing just on those points you wish most to hide,_ Dernhil thought to himself, _and yet he is so good at concealment himself. Truly, I don’t even know where he’s been these last years._  
Dernhil had heard rumours, of course, and he knew that rumours and gossip were not entirely to be trusted – yet he still listened closely whenever he heard his old friend’s name mentioned in passing. His ear still itched to learn of where Cadvan might be, what he had been doing, when he had last been seen in Norloch. It was only the latter that Dernhil truly trusted – only then he could say to himself with certainty ‘Cadvan was alive so-many weeks ago, so-many months ago’. It was difficult for Dernhil to picture Cadvan dead – especially seated in the Dining Hall, watching Cadvan consume baked beans as if they were going out of fashion. But it was equally difficult for him to picture Cadvan in some place where he was not in danger or barrelling into danger. Even now, in the safety of Pellinor, he carried his sword on his hip. And he always had a tired look about him these days – every time Dernhil saw him, there was a new scar or bruise on his person, some new weight pulling at him. Dernhil thought back to the day before, when he had gone to meet Cadvan at the stables. When Cadvan had turned to Dernhil’s call, there had been a moment – just a tiny moment – when Dernhil hadn’t recognised him.  
_You still remember him as he was in his youth_ , a voice in Dernhil’s head said, _as he was in your youth._  
Dernhil knew this was true. Despite all that had happened, when Dernhil thought of Cadvan the first image that came to his mind was the moment of their first meeting so long ago at Lirigon, when they had both barely been beyond twenty. He had been so bright then. Everywhere he went he had shone like a brilliant star, earth-bound but only barely – the true Star of Lirigon, a beacon of the Light. It was practically a given that one day he would be the First Bard and, meeting him, Dernhil had utterly believed it.  
The second image that rapidly followed was that from terrible night. The night Cadvan had summoned the Revenant. The night that shining star had been crushed. Dernhil shuddered.  
Cadvan had changed much since those days; and yet Dernhil felt in some aspects that he had hardly changed at all. Cadvan no longer shone like a star – and yet there was still something about him that compelled people to listen when he spoke. An inward light. He had been divisive in his youth – inspiring adoration in some and hatred in others – and that much remained, only now he did not seek either. He was wiser, and more care-worn. He carried many scars; some on his body, most somewhere deeper. He was stronger and harder and more secretive. He joked more and laughed less.  
_But it’s the same laugh_ , Dernhil thought, _and the same smile_. The thought brought a smile to Dernhil’s own lips.  
And yet Dernhil himself felt almost unchanged since that time – aside from the scar on his back and the loss of a dear friend, his life had continued on its steady pace. He moved often from School to School on visits, but only occasionally was he called permanently away – typically, he was placed to a School for at least several years before he was compelled to move again. He was still held in high regard throughout Annar, as he had been when he and Cadvan had met. He would wager Cadvan would have no trouble recognising him still, so unchanged was he. Such was the path laid out for Dernhil – a sedate destiny of learning and lore. Dernhil felt no unhappiness with it. He knew he belonged in the library. Cadvan had too, once, but that part of his destiny was now behind him – his road lay in a different direction, one which threw him in the way of many dangers.  
Dernhil glanced once again at his companion. Even though he had more than twice the amount of food to get through, he was happily dunking his toast-crusts into the oozing yellow centres of the second of his boiled eggs. All that remained on his plate was breadcrumbs, pale red trickles of baked-bean-sauce, and a few shiny puddles of melted butter. Dernhil looked at his own modest bowl of porridge. It was barely half-finished.  
“You’re just like Cai!” Dernhil exclaimed, to which Cadvan blinked “The both of you! You eat like you don’t next know when you’ll see a fair meal, and by the Light I don’t know where you put it.”  
“I cannot speak for young Cai,” Cadvan responded with a delicately raised eyebrow “but I typically don’t know when I’ll next see a fair meal. I think of these visits to Schools as a bear might – fattening myself up for a long winter!”  
“Cai certainly has nothing like your excuse.” Dernhil agreed “He eats at least three full meals a day and only seems to grow upwards, not outwards. One day, I should like to place you both at either end of one of these long tables. We shall fill the tables with food, starting with soups and salads and progressing though meat and fish and vegetables until, at the very middle, will be a great mountain of sweet-cakes and jellies and bowl-puddings. Then we shall set you off at the same time and see who reaches the middle first.”  
Cadvan let out another of his sudden, bellowing laughs, clutching his chest and throwing himself back in his seat.  
“And so it shall be done!” Cadvan declared “At the end of the Meet, we shall take all the left-overs to the Great Hall and do just as you say. I shall treat it as a duel – and you must be my second, Dernhil, for it is only you I would trust to roll me away at the end with sufficient dignity!”  
“I should dearly wish to stand in your favour, old friend, but I am afraid my support would lie with the young up-and-comer. You must accept this and only be thankful that he has no taste for mushrooms.”  
“I must pick your brain to discover my opponent’s weaknesses!” Cadvan declared. His serious tone was entirely undermined by the crinkle around his eyes and an orange-yellow stain of egg-yolk on his chin. “Am I to presume that young Cai is one of your some-time students.”  
“Yes,” Dernhil said “and one of my more difficult ones. His Gifts are. . . extraordinary. Unique. I have never seen nor heard of their like. He is capable of a great many things, but his true interest lies with Healing – and so it is difficult to pull his attention in any other direction.”  
Cadvan nodded knowingly. “Indeed. It is unusual for one so young as him to be allowed to heal an injury alone, even if he is so strong as everyone says he is. He still has much to learn, as the events of last night proved.”  
“What?” Dernhil had gone still, spoon stopped half-way up to his mouth. A gloopy lump of porridge dripped onto his robe-front. He did not seem to notice.  
“There was an incident with Cai at the Houses of Healing last night, in the small hours.” Cadvan said “I know none of the details – Dorn told me he had over-tired himself, but something felt. . . I thought – as his teacher – you had already been informed. I only discovered it by chance.” Cadvan felt oddly like he had given away some confidence.  
“No, no, you were right to tell me.” Dernhil said distractedly “Milana usually informs me when. . . but with the feast and the Meet, no doubt she was distracted. . . I should probably. . . if you’ll excuse me, Cadvan.”  
“Of course.” Cadvan watched as Dernhil stumbled to a stand, his long robes catching around his legs and feet when he tried to step over the bench on which they were seated. Scholastic robes, wonderfully designed for glidingly floatily around tall bookshelves or sombrely navigating the physically undemanding life of a scholar, were entirely unsuitable for any kind of haste or vigorous activity. It took several attempts for Dernhil to free himself, and when he did he rushed off with barely a word of goodbye, leaving Cadvan to stare after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greatly enjoyed writing this little glimpse of Cadvan from Dernhil's POV. Have I written Dernhil as a little bit in love with Cadvan? Yes, absolutely, without a doubt. I can definitely see there having been a bit of tension there when they were both young Bards - tension that would have absolutely come to something if Young Cadvan weren't busy being an arrogant show-off (and then, post-incident, busy steeping in guilt and shame over killing his lover whoops).


	9. The Welcome Feast

If Dernhil returned to the library later in the day, Cadvan did not see him. Cadvan himself was half-occupied in avoiding the attentions of visiting Bards who wished to engage him in conversation, but between hiding-places his thoughts bent more on the pursual of his own research. As uncomfortable as the duration of the Meet would be, Cadvan was not a man to let an opportunity pass him by. This went for the prospect of hearing news from around Edil-Amarandh in the various Councils of the forthcoming week. He himself had observed much in his travels and wished to see how other Schools were faring, what precautions and decisions were being made. He also had certain suspicions that he hoped the immense Pellinor book collection might shed some light on. 

_Oh, how I wish Nelac were here_ , Cadvan thought, not for the first time since his arrival in the North. Nelac was deeply read in certain areas of lore and knowing. How dearly Cadvan wished to share his troubles with his old mentor. But there was little hope for that; although Bards were a sturdy breed, Nelac was old and an important member of the First Circle of Norloch. Even if he were inclined to travel the length of Annar for the sake of a Meet, he could not be spared for that long. No, if Cadvan wished to speak with his old mentor, he would have to make the journey himself. 

Cadvan had been resolved on this for quite some time, but a part of him had remained hopeful that it would be unnecessary. Now he knew there was no chance of Nelac travelling, and he was decided. As soon as the Meet and the subsequent visit to Innail was over he would cross the Hutmoors, skim through the edges of the Great Forest, and land directly at Norloch to report to the First Circle and meet with his dear friend. 

This plan decided, Cadvan’s mind did not ease. Instead, it whirled in different directions in an even greater fury. He had much preparing to do, and with only a limited time to plunder Pellinor’s extensive library. Pellinor being one of the oldest Schools in all Edil-Amarandh – certainly the oldest in North Annar – it counted among its treasures some of the rarest books in the land. The library itself had been extended time and again to suit new influxes of resources, which could be seen very clearly in the architecture. Cadvan’s searches led him away from the more expansive, elegant book-halls to the very oldest part of the library complex, and thus of Pellinor itself. The book-rooms he found himself in were smaller, more sombre. There were no free-standing bookshelves in these intimate spaces – instead, they bordered the room like sentinels standing to attention, utterly concealing the walls, making the rooms look as if they were constructed entirely of books. Between the top of the bookshelves and the start of the barrelled ceilings ran a band of diamond-paned windows which let the sunlight flood in and pool on the little work-desks perched sturdily about. The ceilings and floors, being the only spaces not covered by bookshelves, were where the main decorative effort was spent. In these ancient rooms, this decoration came in the form of complex, masterfully-made mosaics and plaster-paintings, each invariably following a narrative or symbolic theme, with the ceiling and floor design always complimenting one another. In one room, the floor was mosaiced in the form of a beautiful summer sky; in the very centre, beneath the desk, a blazing orange-and-yellow sun extended gold-chased tendrils out into each corner of the room, around which fluffy white-grey clouds shared danced with twirling red-breasted songbirds. Correspondingly, the ceiling was illustrated richly with a winter night’s sky, the glowing full moon and constellations painted in shining silver which would seem to twinkle when illuminated by candlelight. And yet another room told the tale of two thwarted lovers, their names lost to history – even Cadvan could not identify them, so ancient was the tale – the floor telling of their fated meeting and the ceiling of their tragic demise and reunion past the Gates of Unreturn, which were depicted as appearing from within the shimmering blue-green Dancing Lights. 

Cadvan lost all sense of time and obligation travelling through these ancient spaces. He crossed paths with none but the occasional Librarian, which suited him very well – and it was only by the low setting sun casting a glare in his eyes that he remembered the Welcome Feast and his obligation to his hosts. 

Making haste through the various courtyards – and taking what shortcuts he dared – Cadvan was delayed once more by a familiar voice hailing him. Sitting on bench under a budding apricot tree was a large man with very dark skin and a broad smile. He was dressed extremely grandly in long, many-layered robes of red-and-gold silk. Various loops and bands of gold jewellery glinted at his fingers, wrists, throat, ears and waist. A golden brooch in the shape of a many-rayed sun pinned the folds of his robe at one shoulder, making it drape attractively across his barrel-like chest. As Cadvan spied him, the Bard stood and held open his arms, making his outfit flutter and flash ever-more in the golden setting sun. 

“Saliman!” Cadvan, not halting his hurried stride, barrelled straight into Saliman with his arms open. They embraced, Cadvan feeling very like he was in the grip of a great, warm, silk-clad bear. It was not an unpleasant feeling. “I was wondering when you might arrive. As always, you cut things close!” 

“You’re hardly one to speak!” Saliman laughed “From what I can see, it is you cutting things close. Are you aware of the hour?” 

Cadvan glanced about him, first at the sun, then the turquoise-faced clock that hovered on one wall of the courtyard. It was less than a half-hour until the start of the Welcome Feast – and Cadvan had yet to reach his rooms, make himself presentable and travel all the way to the Great Hall. Why did everything have to be so damned far away from everything else in this School? Cadvan swore. 

“I must make haste,” Cadvan said, needlessly, already retreating “but you will sit with us at the Feast? I expect to eat with Silvia and Malgorn!” 

“Yes, yes, of course!” Saliman called, still laughing “now go – go!” 

Cadvan took off at a run. To be late to the Welcome Feast, when the First Bard had made him a guest in her own quarters, would be unforgivably rude. He raced through the castle corridors, hoping that his instinct for direction was steering him right, and soon found himself bursting unceremoniously through those pretty lily-gilded double doors. Silvia was pacing unhappily in the corridor beyond. The frown on her brow only deepened at Cadvan’s entrance.

“Here,” she said sternly, shoving a pile of clothing into his arms “a gift from Milana and Dorn. Dress quickly or we will be late – Malgorn is waiting for us outside the Great Hall – make haste! Sometimes I think you have left your good manners out in the wilderness somewhere!” 

Cadvan glanced at the neatly stacked bundle in his arms. On the very top was a tunic of thick blue silk that shone dully in the candlelight. He frowned. 

“I prefer to wear black,” he said, sightly grumpily. To his surprise, Silvia’s lips twitched into a momentary smile. 

“Yes,” she said, “I believe that is why Milana did not choose it.” 

Cadvan snorted and retreated into his chamber. There would be no time to bathe or shave, as planned – not now – so instead he did the best he could with the water in the wash-basin and a comb, hoping his run across the castle had not made him too sweaty. No doubt Silvia would inform him if he was too smelly for formal company. 

In addition to the tunic – which, Cadvan discovered upon unfurling it, was embroidered around the neck, sleeves and hem with little strings of silver stars – the bundle contained a clean linen undershirt, some fresh hose and a pair of supple kid-leather gloves (for even in the summertime, the nights became very cold in the north). All of this Cadvan donned hastily. The gloves he tucked into his belt, to which a sheathed Arnost was also attached – his old cloak thrown over his shoulders – silver brooch pinned to his breast – and he was ready. He emerged from the room not five minutes since entering it. Silvia gave him a stern up-and-down, and nodded. 

“It will have to do!” she declared “Although you looked more respectable this morning when you were off to hide in the library! But wait! Where is your lyre? Milana has specifically requested you play for us tonight.”

Cadvan dashed back to fetch it, feeling a little harried. Silvia did not even wait for him to reach her, but marched straight for the door once she saw he had his instrument. 

“You are the very picture of Autumn, dear Silvia.” Cadvan offered sweetly. He shortened his stride to meet hers; there was no use in annoying her further by making her trot to keep his pace. 

“Shush! Your flattery will get you nowhere if we are late to the feast! And you likened my beauty to Autumn yesterday – if you wish to soothe me with sugared words, at least employ a selection.” 

Cadvan smirked, but merely offered his humble apologies. 

Silvia, it seemed, knew her way through Pellinor far better than Cadvan – she navigated them through servant’s passages and thin alleys between buildings with expertise, and soon the pair was crossing the flower-filled garden that preceded the entrance to the Great Hall. From outside, the stained-glass was illuminated by the candlelight within, casting pink and yellow and blue shafts of light onto the grass like water-reflections. The air was heavy with the smell of early spring roses. Outside the immense double-doors, a few stragglers loitered still. One of them, fidgeting impatiently, was Malgorn; the other, leaning against the wall, was Saliman. He grinned, white teeth flashing in the low sun. 

“See, we are not late,” Cadvan finally dared to speak, sensing Silvia’s marching-pace relax a little “may I flatter you now?” 

“So long as you come up with something less well-used,” she said slyly. 

“I shall set my mind to the task this very instant,” Cadvan teased back, earning a smile. Saliman, as they grew closer, pushed himself from the wall and circled Cadvan, a serious expression on his face. 

“That is much better,” Saliman said, nodding approvingly “I was worried you would be dressed in all black, like usual – I was peering into the shadows, wondering if one of them would detach itself and morph into the form of my good friend Cadvan!” 

Cadvan, feeling a little hot in the face, merely passed on his greetings. Silvia and Saliman shared a conspiratorial look. 

“Yes, yes, Cadvan looks charming – no time to dilly-dally! Come, come!” Malgorn said and ushered the group inside. But they did not get far. Almost as soon as they stepped beneath the archway, they stopped as one to gaze around in awe. 

The Great Hall of Pellinor stretched out before them. Unlike the Great Halls at Innail or Lirigon or Gent, which were in their rudimentary forms just large rectangles, the Hall at Pellinor was a great domed oval. And unlike any other building in any other School – or any other place in Edil-Amarandh, Cadvan suspected – it was made almost entirely of brilliant, jewel-toned glass. From every direction glass panels glinted and winked in the candlelight, reflecting the light back into the room like mirrors and so making it appear as if the very building gave off a persistent, sentient glow. Around the sides, the glass illustrated ancient legends from Afinil and the days of the Elementals – noble heroes and dark creatures walked the hall from every direction, a children’s story-book come to life. Cadvan suspected a hundred Bards could spend every minute of their lengthened lives examining the Hall and still not uncover all its secrets. 

But none of their gazes lingered on the walls for long. Almost involuntarily, each eye found itself staring up, up, up, at the magnificent glass ceiling. 

The design undulated from the outside in in concentric circles, much like the city circles in the larger Barding cities. The outer rings were made in cool blues, purples, greens, interwoven with elegant arum lilies – in the third-furthest circle, oculi of clear glass spaced at regular intervals showed the symbols of every School in Edil-Amarandh. There, the sun of Turbansk; there, the four-pointed star of Lirigon; there, the running horse of Innial. They were all there, even the thistle of the School of Zimek, sacked shortly after the Great Hall was constructed. An important reminder of what was lost, and what could not be allowed to be lost again. In the very middle of the dome, utterly dominating then design of the entire space, was an explosion of reds, oranges, yellows and browns set in circular panes, all coming together to form an immense blazing sun. Its golden tendrils stretched across more than half the ceiling – even the metal that conjoined the glass panels to one another was painted over in iridescent gold and bronze. It dominated the entire ceiling design so much that, during daytime hours, it stained the sunlight pink, perpetually casting the Great Hall in a low, warm, candle-light-like glow – it was for this reason that the Great Hall was also widely known as a favoured spot for lovers, and many a troth had been plighted under the rose-tinted glow of its glass walls. And yet it was so much more. This was the sun that fed the land, just as the Light was that force that fed Bardic Gifts, allowing them to provide aid to the needy and bring relief where there might have been suffering. The very centre of the domed ceiling, just where the colours of the sun were hottest and darkest, dipped down in a fat, blob-shaped pendant. It forever hovered over the marble floor, as if just about to drop. Cadvan’s hand twitched; he wished, briefly, that he might reach and brush it with his fingertips, to touch the very burning core of the sun, to feel it burn through him. He curled his hand around Arnost’s hilt. 

“How does it remain standing?” Silvia whispered, as if to herself. Although none of them could answer, her question snapped them from their reverie. They hurried in, striding through the hall to the far end, where a relatively empty table remained. Aside from innate beauty of the stained glass, the Hall had been festooned with swags of greenery and criss-crossed with red velvet ribbons. Large circular tables had been arranged around the hall; on top of each was placed a tall golden candelabra clad at the base with a wreath of white arum lilies. Crystalline glasses and fine white plates waited to be filled – the three decanters containing different delicacies were already catching Malgorn’s eye – and everywhere one looked there was food. Cadvan’s stomach churned hungrily. He was not kept waiting for long. 

No sooner had they all taken their seats, than a hush fell over the hall. From where he was seated, Cadvan had an unimpeded view of the raised dais in the middle of the hall. Upon this dais, Milana stood tall, waiting. She was dressed entirely in white, her dark hair draped in thick bound-up plaits at the nape of her neck, and a white stone shone on her brow like a star. 

She was not alone.


	10. 'Into My Own'

Dorn stood towards the back of the platform, respectful and silent. Before him, shining in the light of many candles and fire-bowls, was his Milana, making the welcome speech; her voice rang out across the immense hall like a bell, clear and resounding. He did not listen to the words – they were the same spoken at each gathering – but instead gazed out at their guests. Innumerable faces were turned in their direction, each wearing varying expressions of raptness or impatience. Dorn needed no Bard-knowing to see exactly what was chief-most on each individual’s mind; young Jasker of Gent, lurking with alarming closeness to the fair Illia of Elevé, was already thinking ahead to what superficial pleasures an evening such as this might afford; Mirran of Arnocen was for all appearances listening intently to Milana’s speech – if not, that is, for the glazed look in her drooping eyes; Saliman of Turbansk, difficult to miss in his many shining bangles and grand Suderian robes, actually was listening, a pleasantly neutral expression on his face, but every now and again he would lean over to Ouranos and whisper something in her ear, to which she would smile. On Saliman’s other side was Cadvan. Dorn’s gaze stilled. So many long-absent friends at this Gathering, and foremost among them was Cadvan of Lirigon, most rarely seen and thus most warmly welcomed. Cadvan’s face was, as ever, difficult to read – and yet, at that instant, he was staring at Milana with a stunned, almost horrified, expression. Dorn glanced at Milana; she was nearing the end of the welcome, her arms open wide in a gesture of collective embrace, and nothing seemed amiss. When Dorn looked back towards Cadvan, he found the Lirigon Bard’s bright blue eyes looking directly back at him. Dorn’s forehead creased. He mentally reached out, but before he could form a query, Cadvan’s expression relaxed and he shook his head slightly with a smile. Dorn, too, relaxed – but the moment continued to lurk in the back of his mind like a worn spot on a cloak. 

Beside him, Cai shifted. All day a portion of Dorn’s mental energy had been set aside specifically to worry about his son – and, secretly, fear for him. At a glance, Cai looked only a little tired; it could be easily talked away by any number of innocent excuses and would likely not garner any attention. Yet Dorn’s paranoia remained. More than ever, the mountainous heap of questions about his children was growing larger and larger, and these questions could no longer be ignored. Answers must be found or. . . or what? What would happen if they continued in ignorance in this way? And yet had they not tried? Had he, Dorn, not been forewarned of the greatness of his children and their destiny since he was a young man? How he wished he could forget that one night, that searing dream when all too much knowledge had been made plain to him, so young, so afraid, so insignificant! And yet the vision was a warning, a gift from the Light, and he would not wish it away. It would be utter foolery. But, for all it showed, it shrouded yet more in mystery, and that shroud remained heavily cast over his son and daughter. 

Cai shifted again. Dorn peeked at him, and in so doing met Maerad’s eye, who stood on Cai’s other side. They shared a worried glance. Cai looked as if he was about to fall asleep where he stood.

“. . . and may the Light bless us!” Milana finished, raising her hands high. Clasped within them was a simple goblet polished to a high shine; within its bright surface, reflections of the many flickering candles about the hall seemed to converge, leaping about one another, until the goblet itself seemed as if it were made from golden-orange flames. There was a great stirring about the hall as hundreds rose to their feet, and the blessing was repeated back, the hundreds speaking and drinking as one. Dorn followed suit, as did Maerad and Cai – a beat late on Cai’s part, Dorn noted. 

And, at last, the formalities were over. Dorn led Milana from the dais by the hand, receiving a small smile of thanks in return. 

“Well?” Dorn murmured to her “Who is our first performer? Have you chosen yet?” 

Milana’s smile immediately faded, and she shot him a censorious, anxious look. There was much social politics around who was the first performer at such feasts, and as this feast featured so very many highly skilled Bards from every nook and cranny of Edil-Amarandh that the potential mess-pit of errors had only been made more expansive. Any choice would inevitably cause offence – the art in it was making the right mistake. Milana was very aware that beyond this evening there was still a long and contentious series of Meets and Councils to labour through; an ordeal that would be only the more miserable if the wrong people were passed over during the Welcome Feast. 

Dorn, sensing her strife, squeezed Milana’s hand slightly. A stern-faced man by all accounts, he made no other visible show of his empathy – but Milana was comforted nonetheless. 

“Perhaps we could just throw the kids up there and get it over and done with?” Dorn joked. They had reached their own table, where the First Circle of Pellinor were arrayed, already serving themselves and one another from the food platters. Cai fell into his chair and, alarmingly, showed hardly any interest in eating whatsoever. Dorn looked at the neatly overflowing platters and tall silver stands of food and thought rather longingly of the feasts of his home, Muransk. Annar was all very well and good, and the food certainly was nothing to be sniffed at – Dorn’s mind went fleetingly to his last visit to Innail – but it was all rather too _polite_. Too _sedate_. The only people this side of the Osidh Elanor where Dorn felt truly connected to his heritage were Thoroldians, who danced and drank and ate with the gleeful boisterousness with which they performed all other acts.

“What? And offend _everyone_ , rather than only a few?” Milana snorted, straining for the wine jug. Dorn, his arms longer, got it for her and filled her goblet generously. 

“Why not? If they’re going to find offence, they shall certainly think twice before voicing complaints against the children of the First Bard.” Dorn said, shooting a wink at Maerad. She raised an eyebrow, but did not comment, too busy fussing over Cai. _Our children_ , Dorn thought to himself with exasperation. Bickering and scrapping at all points, yet closer than a man to the shirt he wore. Even as their father, at times he found them baffling. As visual composites they were familiar – Dorn could easily track bits of himself and bits of Milana in them both. Yet sometimes, if Dorn caught sight of them when they were asleep or if they thought they were alone, there was some. . . some otherness about them. It was the same otherness that he had once or twice seen in Milana, but stronger, more concentrated, almost, at times, alienating. Dorn’s love for his children could neither be doubted nor shaken; and yet lately his understanding of them had seemed to wane by the hour. 

“What a thing to say!” Milana hissed, but Dorn could see that she was smiling.

“Well, you’ve not long to make up your mind.” Dorn responded, sweeping another glance about the hall. Milana let out an annoyed huff, but did not respond, turning with determined concentration to the large bowl of potatoes to her right. The guests, too, were merrily digging into the food, a noise like a gentle swarm of bees picking up about the hall. Typical Annarean feasts were ordered affairs. Dorn remembered with some horror a feast he had attended in Elevé some thirty years ago; it had had twelve courses and stretched on so long that Dorn was dormant with boredom by the time it finally wrapped up to a close. Thankfully, in the Northern Schools this regimented, labour-intensive method had never quite taken hold, and instead the feasts of Innail, Pellinor, Lirigon and Ettinor more closely resembled the pick-and-choose, grab-it-where-you-can informality of mealtimes with the Pilanel. It was also kinder to the servants, who – rather than being obliged to work long into the night – were for the most part given the evening off for their own pleasure, and any workers were traditionally paid extra for the additional labour surrounding a Meet. Glancing around, Dorn only noticed a few senior members of staff overseeing the evening, mostly for the gratification of seeing their own hard work appreciated. Hannah, the School’s Head Cook, was particularly dedicated to Milana, and loitered not far off by the back wall. 

Maerad, who had less experience in stuffy Bardic events and thus was more easily impressed, had a mind bent far more pleasantly, although still not entirely without concerns. Cai was foremost in her concerns but, unlike her father, she felt certain in the knowledge that there was not much wrong with him aside from tiredness. So, she did the lion’s share of conversation, allowing Cai to slouch back in his chair and stare at his plate, willing off sleep. _It is a shame_ , she thought to herself, _they have Cai’s favourite pudding_. She made a mental note to sneak some from the pantries on the morrow, when Cai would surely be awake enough to appreciate them. 

The feast clinked on, voices becoming raised with merriment as the wine took hold. But Maerad was only biding her time; she had been attending feasts since she was a young child and knew that in these things, the meal was only the least interesting part of the evening. After the food came the performances, where chosen Bards might honour their hosts with music or poetry readings, and after that was the dancing. Maerad was eagerly anticipating both. 

Her eyes scanned the Great Hall hungrily. She knew that her mother had asked Dernhil to read this evening and that he was planning on reading some of his new work – work that he wouldn’t even let her read. Where was he? He must be about somewhere. . . ah ha! 

Dernhil was sat at a table not too far away in familiar company; Silvia, Malgorn, Saliman and Ouranos all numbered amongst the table’s occupants. Dernhil’s cheeks were slightly flushed, but as always he seemed self-possessed and calm. Maerad’s eyes lingered on the planes of his face, fine-boned and delicate, and found herself smiling slightly. 

Suddenly, Dernhil’s face turned, and he leaned to his left, where an unfamiliar man sat. Maerad squinted at him, but could not get a clear look at his face; all she saw was dark hair and, emerging from the sleeves of a star-embroidered tunic, a pair of broad-fingered, articulate hands sketching out gestures in the air. He seemed to be describing something at great length, to Dernhil’s increasing amusement; Maerad had never seen Dernhil so wracked with laughter, tears streaking down his cheeks. Looking about her at her own dinner companions, who had been exchanging nothing more than sedate, polite comments all evening, she felt a strong pang of envy. She was even momentarily annoyed at Cai. If he hadn’t over-extended himself in the Houses of Healing they’d be having a merry time muttering and making jokes together, playing the games they had made up precisely for such boring parts of a formal evening. But then Maerad remembered that Cai had saved a man’s life, and her selfishness dissolved. 

She turned her eyes back to Dernhil, who was still laughing, although now also saying something back. _Perhaps they are speaking of poetry_ , Maerad thought, rather naively. She had only ever seen Dernhil get this animated when speaking of poetry. And. . . well, several other times, when not speaking of poetry. Maerad blushed. That had been a passion of an entirely different nature. 

As if by some unspoken cue, Dernhil’s entire table threw their heads back and laughed. The dark-haired stranger to Dernhil’s left turned to Saliman, making some low-toned addition, and as he did so Maerad caught a clearer glimpse of his face. He seemed familiar, yet no matter how she searched her memory she could not place him. Something about the way his mouth moved as he talked, or perhaps the way his hair fell about his face? Something, something. 

Milana stood, and all such thoughts on Dernhil and his strange friend fled from Maerad’s mind. The main eating portion of the evening was over, and now the entertainment would begin! But who would her mother choose as the first performer? Maerad’s eyes hunted once more across the Hall. Several Bards were already hopefully clutching their instruments, big eyes fixed on the First Bard. The honour of first performance was a great one, and did credit to both the host School and the performer. 

“Fellow Bards of Edil-Amarandh!” Milana called, her voice easily carrying all the way to the far side of the Hall “We have feasted, and now please welcome the first of our honoured performers of the evening: Cadvan of Lirigon.” 

With a grand sweep of the arm, Milana gestured to the table where Dernhil was seated. The dark-haired figure rose, turned towards Milana and performed a quick, sweeping bow. Maerad’s gasp – and not a few other gasps, both of excitement and disappointment – was drowned out by a wave of applause. 

Cadvan trotted his way to the dais, lyre tucked under his arm, and plucked at the strings, testing the tuning. The applause settled down. Maerad watched him keenly, such a riot of thoughts storming her mind that she could hardly tell one from the other. Cadvan of Lirigon! He had been in such a state when they had met by the fountain, closer in appearance to a disreputable bandit than a highly respected Bard, that she had not even recognised him in fine dress. 

Cadvan sang and played splendidly – this Maerad recalled, although she could recall little else aside from being mightily impressed. When he rounded up his performance to roaring applause, he bowed once more to the First Circle, one hand resting over his heart in the very image of courteousness. He straightened, stepped from the dais – and froze. His eyes had landed on Maerad. He recognised her. And Maerad’s worries about what she should say or do fled; just like that moment in the courtyard when she had burst from the water, Maerad found herself no longer distressed, but utterly, unwaveringly serene. She felt as if she were standing atop a tall hill, surveying something very far away, something very small and bright and confusing. 

Cadvan, as if pushed from behind, lurched forwards once more. He had only paused for a moment, and all about them the Hall was still thundering with applause, the odd crow of “More! Another!” flying up like a torch. Cadvan seemed disinclined to perform again, for he headed straight back to his table without a backward glance and reached immediately for his wine goblet. Maerad, too, found she was not unshaken by their brief moment of acknowledgement; when she came back to herself, she realised her hands had fisted on her lap, crinkling up the fabric of her dress, and that she had been holding her breath. 

There was no time to regain her senses. No sooner had Cadvan left the stage, but Dernhil ascended it, to even greater applause, joined by a low, excited murmur that Maerad did not quite understand. An alarmed look overtook Milana’s face – but she need not have worried. Dernhil came armed not with an instrument but a leather-bound notebook, the pages of which Dernhil fiddled with as he spoke. 

“An impossible musical performance to follow,” Dernhil said, after the customary bows to his hosts “and therefore, I offer not musicality, but poetry for the pleasure of the gathered friends before me.” 

Dernhil started with a few shorter, widely-known poems, all of which were met with immense approval from the guests. Maerad, too, drew immense pleasure from hearing his recital; not only did she enjoy his style of poetry, but he had a kind of slow, gentle way of speaking that made the poems he read rather hypnotic. Yet Maerad was also impatient to hear his new works, of which there had been much promise and no evidence. Maerad did not know that her sentiments were echoed by another in the audience; Cadvan, too, was eager to hear what his old friend had been up to in their many years apart. Finally, their silent wishes were answered. Dernhil, with a nervous little shuffle of the shoulders, flicked to an entirely different section of his notebook and, glancing at Maerad, cleared his throat. 

“The beautiful Pellinor has served as both occupation and inspiration to me here for some several months. I have not been idle, and now I beg you listen kindly to the fruits of my brooding. . .

_“One of my wishes is that those dark trees,  
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,   
Were not, as ‘twere, the merest mask of gloom,   
But stretched away unto the edge of doom. _

_I should not be withheld but that some day  
Into their vastness I should steal away,   
Fearless of ever finding open land,   
Or high-road where the slow wheel pours the sand. _

_I do not see why I should e’er turn back,  
Or those should not set forth upon my track   
To overtake me, who should miss me here  
And long to know if still I held them dear. _

_They would not find me changed from him they knew –  
Only more sure of all I thought was true.”_

He finished with a bow, and the Hall erupted into applause. Maerad heard it as if from very far away. She felt as if she was moving very slowly; her heart was not beating as it usually was, but barely trundling by, and loud, as if a sombre drum were being struck lazily within her sternum; she was not breathing, or rather she was, her each breath not being the breath of a young woman, but the rush of a whole zephyr being heaved slowly in, slowly out, through her mouth and nose; her eyes gazed glassily before her, unseeing. Dernhil’s words reverberated within her mind, echoing from one another until they made no sense at all, but were just sounds, just noises, just vibrations making her whole being shake. Figures moved before her like ghosts, people made of some thin slippery substance, transparent as wind-silk, insubstantial yet also somehow solid and immovable. Known – familiar even. Loved. Loved? Dead! All dead! But who? Who were they? Where were they from? Maerad reached out, and felt herself stretch thin as she did so, like a spilled bowl of water spreading across a floor. She seeped towards the wraiths, the thrum of Dernhil’s voice still shaking through her. _Who are you?_ She cried. _Who are you?_ No response, but she felt eyes turn on her. Recognised her. Maerad opened her mouth to shout again, but the awareness turned away from her, and then dissolved. She snapped back into herself, drawing in an immense breath. 

“. . . Maerad?” 

A hand was on her arm. Maerad blinked. It was Cai. Although his under-eyes were still smudged with purple, he was peering at her with more keenness than he had been able to muster since the healing incident. 

“Did you see it?” Maerad hissed. 

“Clap.” Cai quickly commanded, turning back to the room, and he and Maerad quickly clapped a still-bowing Dernhil off the stage. No time at all had passed since the completion of the poem, and yet Maerad felt utterly exhausted, like she had just travelled an immeasurably long distance. 

“ _Did you see it?_ ” Maerad hissed again, this time in Elidhu. Cai jumped a little, looking back at her sharply. They were not supposed to use that tongue in public, and certainly not within earshot of the First Circle. He held her gaze. . . and nodded minutely. Maerad felt as if she had been flash-frozen in a block of ice. It was almost worse to have Cai confirm it. His hand on her arm moved to clutch her hand, and she realised they had started shaking. She gripped Cai’s hand back tightly for a few long moments, then extracted herself from his grip with a nod. 

“Later,” she said, as if agreeing with something nobody had said. Cai nodded back and turned his once more weary eyes to the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little unsure of this chapter - i considered skipping the rest of the Welcome Feast altogether, as it didn't feel like the right time for Cadvan and Maerad to have their first proper conversation. Your usual girl meets boy on the dance floor vibe felt like a bit of an injustice to them as characters. But I really liked the section with Dernhil, and with Dorn and Milana, and so this shorter chapter remained - i hope you all enjoyed it! 
> 
> The poem that Dernhil reads is what the chapter is named for: 'Into My Own' by Robert Frost, which was only slightly altered to sit better within Pellinor's non-modernised, fantasy world. I read it and knew immediately it suited Dernhil so well; he's a character i associate with goodness and purity, but also lost possibilities (both for Maerad and Cadvan) and foreboding, and even in this AU i can't quite shake that.

**Author's Note:**

> So! Just a little taste. This fic remains unfinished and is like to remain so for a while as i focus on other projects. But it's a favourite world of mind to dip into, so here it is for you all to dip into, too.


End file.
